


The Ruined Places

by soavezefiretto



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Coming of Age, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Love, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence, no Garak/Bashir slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-01-14 07:32:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 60
Words: 101,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1258135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soavezefiretto/pseuds/soavezefiretto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six years in a brutal labour camp have left deep scars on the soul and body of Tora Ziyal. To try and escape what she has become, she flees to Deep Space 9, where she meets Elim Garak, who'd secrets are even darker and deeper than hers, or so he wants her to believe. Can these two damaged people help each other, or are they doomed to destroy each other? And what role will one William Riker play in this story? </p><p>AU, features Ziyal/Damar, ultimately Ziyal/Garak. Also some Kira/Dukat, it seems. Go figure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miloowen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miloowen/gifts).



> This was originally my 2013 NaNoWriMo novel. What I'm posting here is my rewrite as I go, so consider it a WIP. The story of the title was very generously provided by miloowen, as well as the inspiration and motivation to continue writing. The title refers to this poem, also suggested by miloowen as related to the story. And is it ever. 
> 
> Hyena  
> By Edwin Morgan
> 
>   I am waiting for you.  
> I have been traveling all morning through the bush  
> and not eaten.  
> I am lying at the edge of the bush  
> on a dusty path that leads from the burnt-out kraal.
> 
> I am panting, it is mid-day, I found no water-hole.  
> I am very fierce without food and although my eyes  
> are screwed to slits against the sun  
> you must believe I am prepared to spring.
> 
> What do you think of me?  
> I have a rough coat like Africa.  
> I am crafty with dark spots  
> like the bush-tufted plains of Africa.
> 
> I sprawl as a shaggy bundle of gathered energy  
> like Africa sprawling in its waters.  
> I trot, I lope, I slaver, I am a ranger.  
> I hunch my shoulders. I eat the dead.
> 
> Do you like my song?  
> When the moon pours hard and cold on the veldt  
> I sing, and I am a slave of the darkness.  
> Over the stone walls and the mud walls and the ruined places

1.

The carpet in front of the stairs, where the body had come to rest, was spotless, a nice, soft, beige color. There was a lot of beige in the room, it was the standard for campus faculty accommodations and Lamar Torel hadn’t added many personal touches to the living room. No photographs, no paintings, no books or magazines.

_“I prefer reading on my padd - I’m not one of those nostalgic types. Frankly, I can’t see the romance in heaps and heaps of paper and dust, do you?”_

The only sign that anyone actually lived there was a jacket tossed over the sofa. That’s where he’d left it when they came in after dinner.

_“How about a bit of music?”_

It was still playing. Sarah Vaughan singing “Come Rain or Come Shine, a small pause, then the first notes of “Mean to Me.” Oh, you’ve been mean, Lamar Torel, you’ve been mean to Tora, and look at you now. 

_“Actually, I spend most of my time upstairs, in the study. Do you want to come up? It has a great view of the pond. I had to walk over corpses to get this place.”_

His expression when he saw her face. His laugh, loud and unashamed, asserting his irresistible charm. 

There weren’t any books in the study either, of course. Instead, the shelves displayed a series of diplomas, sports awards from Lamar’s own university days, and his collection of heart stones.

_“You have to venture pretty deep into the Fire Caves to get these. I was terrified the first time I did it, but afterwards it gets sort of addictive.”_

The fearless explorer, the big strong man. Moving close to her, breathing heavy, his hands searching for a place to land. 

Killing a person doesn’t have to be a very tumultuous act, at least not outwardly. Tora knew how to kill a person with minimal waste of time and energy. The problem came afterwards. There were logistics involved in killing. 

A lifeless body is big and unwieldy and never easy to dispose of. Back at the camp she had taken advantage of the desert: a body dumped in the dunes would be eaten clean away in a matter of days, hours even, if a sandstorm formed, and they formed often. People disappeared there every day, and what did it matter? Another prisoner gone meant more food for the rest of them and less work for the guards. A win-win situation for everyone. 

But a respected professor of linguistics, somewhat of a local celebrity on account of his athletic feats as a student and his manly good looks, on a university campus not 50 kilometres from Jalanda City, that was a different matter. This was the real world. Civilisation. Close-clipped lawns, painstakingly planted flowerbeds which were color coordinated. There would be inquiries, questions, police investigations. They would want to know what happened. They would use their instruments to sweep the place, and they would find out she had been here, and then they would find the body, of course they would, and they would use their instruments on it and they would find fingerprints, or hair, or some other minuscule but unequivocal proof of her guilt. 

Tora considered the situation. It was still early, no one would miss Lamar until he was due at class next morning. There was plenty of time to devise a satisfactory solution to her problem. 

So, hiding the body was not an option. Could she make it disappear by some other means? There were acids that could dissolve flesh in a matter of seconds. There were weapons that could disintegrate anything in the blink of an eye. Could she get her hands on any of those in the next six hours? Probably not. Stupid Ziyal had refused to take even the most basic precautions, she had no weapons, no planned escape routes. “I’m here to learn. I’m here to start a new life. I won’t need any of that. All that is in the past.” 

Fool. Doe-eyed, naive fool. 

If she couldn’t hide the body, and couldn’t make it disappear, the only option left was to leave it right there where it had fallen from the study, down the stairs into the living room. All anyone knew (and this, a lot of people knew, it was a small campus and there wasn’t very much to talk about), was that professor Lamar Torel and Tora Ziyal had gone out on a date. They had been seen in a little restaurant in the town near campus, sampling their traditional Bajoran cuisine with a touch of the avant garde. After listening to some jazz in a student café nearby (plenty of witnesses there too), they had walked back to the campus through the forest. But no one had seen them after that. No one had seen Ziyal accept his invitation to come up to his apartment, but why would she deny it? Yes, she had been there. The fingerprints? Well, yes, she had touched him and he had touched her. She was an adult woman, after all. But things didn’t go very far, because she didn’t know him that well yet, and because he was a gentleman. 

Except for his fingers, thick suddenly, and hot, his hand travelling up and down her leg, up and down. 

_“Do you like the music? Her voice is so sensual, don’t you think?”_

There would always be doubt. But could there be more than that? Yes, sir, yes, Mr. Police Investigator, he had a couple of drinks. No, I didn’t, I don’t like the taste. I never drink. Certainly I wouldn’t mind a blood test, anything to help. 

The only prints they would find would be on his neck, and only upon very close examination could they find that the pressure exerted was a bit too heavy for the kind of sweet caresses appropriate to a first date, and that the angle of his neck fracture didn’t match with the angle of the stairs he’d supposedly fallen down. But wouldn’t the investigators want to concentrate on the much more obvious concussion, the broken vertebrae and the high concentration of alcohol in his blood? 

Tora hated to rely on such a ridiculous thing as hope, but there it was. Under the circumstances, it would have to do. Her job was to make sure that these circumstances never presented themselves again. From now on, no matter where they went or how safe it seemed, they needed to have their bases covered. Ziyal needed to learn her lesson. 

And they would need to move. Soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh no, you don't understand, my sweet. This is not going to end like this. This was never going to end like this."
> 
> Ziyal goes up for a cup of coffee. Tora dances down the stairs.

2.

It had all been timed and staged with professional zeal and accuracy. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it, and if she hadn’t ended him for good, it wouldn’t have been the last. He had adjusted the tone of his voice, the frequency of his smiles, the exact pitch of his laughter. Even Tora had started to feel more and more at ease, lulled into sort of a pleasant state of friendly detachment. Maybe he really was just what he seemed: a mildly boring, not too profound man whose only real asset were his looks and who was starting to wonder what he would do when he couldn’t rely on his attractive anymore. Maybe he was what Ziyal needed: someone unthreatening, unexciting with whom she could play at being a couple for a while. 

When he kissed her, Ziyal didn’t feel much of anything, which she had expected, and she didn’t remember anything either, which was good. When he asked her in, for “a cup of coffee”, she knew what it meant. And she went. This was something she needed to do. Or so she thought. 

Up in his studio, in front of the shelves full of precious heart stones, he kissed her again, pressing her to himself this time, running his hands up and down her back, digging his fingers into her shoulders. Breathing heavily, pushing her toward the bedroom while fingering her dress, trying to undo the buttons. Ziyal closed her eyes, telling herself to try to relax. She could feel he was very eager, it would be over soon. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who liked to take his time… And who said she couldn’t even enjoy it? People, normal people, people in this world who went out for dinner and chatted about pets and the latest fashions from Betazed were supposed to enjoy sex, weren’t they? 

And then he had to go and speak. He shouldn’t have done that. 

“Oooh, I know you are going to love this. I know you want it. You Cardassians, you love it, don’t you? You just can’t help it.” 

“What did you say?”

“Oh, are you going to play that game? I love that game. Is that what you’re going to do? Is that how you like it?”

He pushed her against the wall and put his hand beneath her skirt. Up and down his hand travelled, up and down. Ziyal still felt nothing. 

“I’ve always wanted a Cardassian. The things they say about you…”

“I’m not a Cardassian.”

One hand between her legs, the other on her breast, he stopped and gave her a genuinely surprised look.

“Of course you are. What else could you be? Even a single drop of Cardassian blood makes you a Cardassian. Everyone knows that.” He chuckled softly, lowering his mouth toward her neck. “Not that we’d need a blood analysis in your case. Just look at these.” His tongue darted out, and he licked. 

“Do you like them?”

He grinned then. He had no way of knowing that Ziyal had already left, and Tora had taken her place. Tora had no intention of hurting this man. She just wanted to get herself and Ziyal away from him as fast as possible. 

“Goodbye, Torel.”

_“Call me Torel. I feel like I know you so well already, and I hope you know me too.”_

Again the surprised look. 

“What?”

And then, while Tora had his back to him, walking towards the stairs that led down to the living room, out of the corner of her eye she saw something bloom in his face that had nothing to do with surprise, and nothing with lust either. It was a look she knew very well, the look of a predator, and she knew then that he was not only disgusting, but dangerous. She turned to face him. He grabbed her arm, but, just as Ziyal hadn’t, Tora didn’t feel anything either. 

“Oh, no. You don’t understand, my sweet.”

“I don’t?”

“This is not going to end like this. This was never going to end like this.”

She watched calmly as he came closer, placing his hand on her buttocks with an easy sense of possession.

“You’re not going to scream, are you? No, of course not, you’re a sensible girl. That’s why I like you so much. You know that if you say something, anything, to anyone, I’ll just say you’re crazy. Out of your mind. You made it all up. It’ll me my word against yours, and who do you think they’ll believe, huh? They’ll put you away, sweet Ziyal, lock you up. Don’t you think they are just waiting for an opportunity? To study you, yeah, because you are a rare one, a rare one, my sweet.”

His accent had gotten thicker, or maybe it was the saliva rushing to his mouth, so thick it was starting to drizzle down his cheek and his throat. She could feel his hands trembling, almost beside himself with the desire to possess her, to humiliate her. 

“Don’t say that. Don’t call me sweet.”

She was smiling when she said it, so, following some humanoid instinct, he smiled back. He was still smiling when she snapped his neck and lightly danced downstairs to watch his heavy body follow, step after step.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Has any of them ever killed someone? Do they know how easy it is?"
> 
> Ziyal takes a shower and reads some Shakespeare.

3.

In her room, Ziyal took off her dress and immediately put it on a hanger in the closet. She had seen how other girls just left their discarded clothes in ever growing piles on chairs, beds and the floor, until they couldn’t take it anymore (or until the ward supervisor took them apart for a discreet yet serious talk). Then they sometimes had these “cleaning up parties”: they brought food and drinks and invited girls from other rooms and wards, and spent hours trying clothes on, exchanging them, giggling, gossiping, and generally having a good time. Ziyal had been invited to some of these parties. Everyone did them, Bajoran girls, Terran, Orion, Betazoid, Deltan. It seemed the propensity to leave clothing lying around a room was a universal trait for young females across space and species. 

Ziyal wished she could do that, just slip out of her dress and leave it there on the floor, then the next day leave another dress on top of it, and so on, and then have a great, extravagant, loud party with a dozen girls dancing around in their underwear. She wanted to teach herself not to care, to live in the moment. To relax. But she couldn’t. Whenever she was in a big group of people her muscles started to clench up, her breathing became shallow and she had to repress the urge to jump out of the nearest window. A dress on the floor looked too much like the crumpled skin of some unnamed being that had crawled away, naked and bloody, to die in some corner of her nice, clean, sunny university dorm room. A smiling girl could turn into a hyena in the blink of an eye, with a mouth full of teeth ready to tear her face off. But Tora would never let that happen, no matter how much Ziyal might wish for it… 

The doctors had said that therapy would help her with all that, but therapy, as she soon found out, didn’t just mean medication to help her sleep and shut down the images and voices, but hours and hours of talking and visualising and integrating. They said she couldn’t have one without the other, so she had said thank you, but no thank you, I’ll be fine, and when they insisted, she just casually mentioned who her father was and how displeased he would be if he found out that his daughter was being harassed and forced to undergo therapy against her will. They left her alone after that. 

She put on her bathrobe and walked to the window. There were lights in many of the other windows in the student’s complex. Ziyal wondered why someone would want to do anything besides sleep while it was dark outside. Darkness was not meant to be lived in. People who stayed awake at night did it to keep watch over others who needed the sleep more than they did, to hide things that shouldn’t be seen, or to protect oneself and one’s possessions against predators, and while there were predators here (Tora had just left behind the broken body of one of them), she assumed it wasn’t the thought of them that was keeping all those people awake, and if they had to hide things, all their rooms wouldn’t be so cheerfully lit. Reading. Or maybe they had just come back from a date, just like she and Lamar only one hour ago, and someone had asked someone else up for a cup of coffee, or one last drink, and maybe proposed to listen to some music. Maybe they had touched each other, found each other, in the natural and exciting and magical way that she had read about in books, and now, afterwards, they were just lying together, softly saying meaningless words. 

Has any of them ever killed someone? Has any of them ever thought about it? Do they know how easy it is? A question of pressure and balance. Cup the chin with one hand, gently. Place the other hand near the ear and lean in close, closer, as if to whisper a secret… and then, move. It cannot be described or explained, that move, it can just be - executed. It becomes a part of you, like that certain jump and twist when you catch a curve pass in a game of Parrises Squares, or that perfect bend to your knee when your tennis racquet hits the ball in just the right way. Or something as simple as a cartwheel. 

Do you remember when father taught you how to do cartwheels?, Tora asked.

Yes, Ziyal remembered. There had been a lawn somewhere, and a nice house, and she had prayed to the Prophets that they could stay there forever, her mother and father and her, but of course it hadn’t lasted. It never did. She had seen some children on the common lawn turn cartwheels, but Ziyal was afraid to fall and break her nose. Her father had said he would be very close by to catch her. “You have to do it fast, very fast”, he’d said. “That’s the secret.”

After taking a shower, Ziyal sat down at her desk with the copy of Shakespeare’s works she had checked out from the library. Tora thought it would be better to go to the library directly, it was open day and night and it would be good if someone saw her there. But Ziyal didn’t want to be looked at. Don’t be silly, Tora sneered, do you think people will know what you’ve done just by looking at you? How could they? You’re so sweet and so cute, everybody loves you!

“Shut up!”

Saying it out loud usually helped. Ziyal opened the book. Someone, she couldn’t remember who, probably a teacher or maybe a librarian, had said to her that if she wanted to understand the soul, and not just the human soul, but a kind of universal soul, she should read Shakespeare, and that if she wanted to understand love, she should read Shakespeare’s sonnets. 

“From fairest creatures we desire increase,  
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,  
But as the ripper should by time decease,  
His tender heir might bear his memory-”

 _Riper_. It’s riper Ziyal, not ripper. 

Shut up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been edited 12.04.2014


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal writes a letter to a friend.

4.

Dear Nerys:

Here I said I would be writing to you all the time, and now you put me to shame with your nice letter, and I haven’t written a single word to you! Thank you so much, I loved reading about your busy life at the station. It sounds like such an interesting and exciting place, always people coming and going, always something unexpected happening… 

Of course the campus is exciting too, in its own way. But then anything outside the camp seems new and exciting to me. My world was so small there: all I cared about was a place to sleep, food, and trying to keep out of the way of bad people. It wasn’t a good life, but it was what I knew. Now I’m meeting new people every day, and I have to talk to them and listen to them, and then I have my classes, too. I’ve been studying so much I make myself dizzy, and I must confess sometimes I feel discouraged by the thought that, even if I devoted my whole life to study, I could only learn a minuscule fraction of all there is to know about the Universe. But mostly I’m just delighted by the chance to learn, so I’ve taken classes in archeology, sociology, biology, astronomy, literature, art, mathematics… just to name a few. I’ve even taken a dancing class (don’t laugh now!), because I have a friend named Tialla who persuaded me to go with her. The teacher says I have “a natural grace”, but I think she’s just being kind. 

Everyone here has been so kind, really. Of course some were cautious at first, that’s only natural. And it’s true there are some people who just prefer not to talk to me at all. But I wouldn’t think of holding it against them. How do I know I wouldn’t do the same if our situations were reversed? But many other people have invited me to parties, or have taken the time to talk to me, to explain things I don’t understand, to listen to me… 

I even went on a date today! A geology professor named Lamar Torel took me for dinner to a very nice restaurant, and then we went to another place where there was a concert of a type of music called “jazz”. Do you know it? It made me kind of uneasy, but in a good way… A curious sensation. Anyway, it was a very nice evening, and then we went to his place and - well, let’s just say I wish you could be here so I could tell you about it. Writing is not the same, and there’s no one here to talk to about that sort of thing. 

Which brings me to something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Like I said, life here on campus has been wonderful, but also exhausting. I have been having headaches and not sleeping very well. Yes, I’ve been to the doctor, and she says it’s just stress, so it’s nothing to worry about. She said to go out more a little more (which I did) and study a little less (which I’m trying to), to exercise (dance class!) and to watch my diet (difficult, but I’m trying). But I’ve been wondering if maybe I need something more, or something else. Or maybe someone I feel more - connected to. 

All right, I’m just going to say it: do you think there’s any chance I could come and live on Deep Space 9, at least for a while? It would be so wonderful to be able to see you and talk to you. Not all the time, of course. I know you have a job and a personal life of your own, and I wouldn’t intrude on that. But I think just to know that you are close by, and maybe have dinner or lunch once in a while would make me feel so much better. Most of the time I would be studying anyway, just like I’m doing here, and reading, which is kind of the same thing because I’ve decided to focus on literature (now I just have to decide which planet, or at least which sector). 

And maybe there wouldn’t be any people looking at me, or choosing to ignore me on Deep Space 9. After all, it’s a space station, people there must be used to seeing much stranger things than me. Also, the fact that it is a space station, that everything is contained in a relatively small space (but still much bigger than what I was used to) makes me feel comfortable. Maybe I just need a period of adaptation. 

I know it is a lot to ask, and I know you will tell me truthfully if it’s not possible. If I can’t live on Deep Space 9, I just will keep looking. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in these past months it’s that the Universe is a big, big, place, and there’s a small place for each and every one of us. We just have to find it. 

All my best wishes to you, dear Nerys.

Your  
Ziyal


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal arrives on Deep Space 9 and meets Kira and Dr. Bashir.

5.

“Welcome to Deep Space 9!”

There she was, all professional in her uniform and close cropped hair. Her smile was friendly, but also guarded. The smile of a soldier who knows that everyone she meets may be dead in a year, a month, a week - an hour. Kira Nerys didn’t believe this was a time of peace, or maybe she didn’t believe in peace, period. She was right, of course. 

She must have another smile, Ziyal was sure of it, open and free, and to see it would be a thing of beauty. She wondered who had seen that smile, who would see it yet. The man at her side, perhaps? He was smiling too, the tired smile of someone who hasn’t had enough sleep for quite some time. His blue uniform indicated he was a scientist or doctor.

“Nerys! I’m so happy to see you…”

They embraced. She is so slight, Ziyal thought. It would be so easy to break her… If I ever needed to.

“Thank you for making this possible.”

“Oh, it was nothing. I just hope you can feel at home here.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“Ziyal, this is doctor Julian Bashir. Julian, Tora Ziyal.”

“Hello, Tora. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Welcome to Deep Space 9.”

“Oh. Hello, Doctor Bashir. I didn’t know I needed a doctor…”

“Oh, no! No, of course you don’t need a doctor. I’m just here in case there was something heavy that needed to be carried.”

Ziyal laughed, while Kira rolled her eyes and smirked, pretending to be annoyed.

“Oh wow, that’s so — attentive. Actually, I do have a couple of very heavy trunks. I had arranged for them to be transported directly to my quarters, but if you really want to carry something…”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “Ok, you called my bluff. All right. The truth is, Nerys has already told me so much about you, I was anxious to meet you and decided I needed to be part of the welcoming committee. I hope you don’t mind.”

She is afraid of you. Kira. She didn’t want to be here alone, with you. Because she didn’t know what to expect? Or because she knew too well? Was your letter not perfect enough, was there something in it, a certain way you arranged you words, the choice of one word over another, that made her suspect? 

“Not at all. I think that’s very - sweet.”

There was a moment of silence in which everyone just sort of smiled at each other. We’re all friends here. 

“Maybe we should show Tora to her quarters?”, Bashir suggested. 

“Yes, yes of course. Right this way…”

Kira’s communicator beeped. “Odo to Kira.”

“Kira here.”

“There’s a - situation at Quark’s. I would appreciate your assistance.”

Ziyal spoke before Kira could say anything.

“Please, don’t worry about me. If you just tell me which way to go, I’m sure I’ll have no problem finding my quarters.”

Kira shook her head. 

“There is no way I will let you wander around on the station alone on your first day. Odo will just have to deal with whatever it is on his own.”

“It has probably something to do with naked women”, Bashir said. “He’s afraid of them. Major, why don’t you go and help Odo out before acute shame makes him liquefy, and I’ll show Tora to her quarters.”

“I don’t know…”

Again Odo’s voice interrupted them from Kira’s communicator. 

“Major?”

“Stand by, Constable.”

“Kira, really, it’s no trouble at all. It is somewhat shameful to admit, but the truth is I’m not busy at all at the moment. Which must mean I am either extremely diligent or extremely lazy, I’m not sure which. It will be not only no trouble, but a genuine pleasure.”

I am going to like this Doctor Bashir, Ziyal thought. He hides something, thought Tora. Of course he does. Everyone hides something.

Kira nodded once and tapped her communicator: “Kira to Odo - I’m on my way.”

“Thank you, Major”. 

“I’m very, sorry, Ziyal…”

“There is nothing to be sorry for, Nerys. I haven’t forgotten my promise: I will not be a nuisance.”

“Nonsense, you’re not being a nuisance. We’ll meet for dinner, I promise my schedule will be clear, and we’ll talk, all right? Nineteen hundred hours at Quark’s. On the promenade, you can’t miss it.”

“Quark’s? Where the naked women are? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

Trying, not very hard, to repress a chuckle, Kira turned to Bashir.

“Thank you, Julian.”

“You’re very welcome”

With a wink and a smile, Kira turned and started walking down the corridor. There was a spring in her step. Was it relief? 

Of course she’s relieved. Who would want to spend time with you, knowing what you are, what you did? Oh, and she knows. One killer can always recognise another.

“So, doctor, tell me more about these naked women…”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal remembers what her father had to say about Elim Garak, and then breaks a mirror.

“You don’t like it.” 

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. Ziyal decided she didn’t need to make the effort to lie to Dr. Bashir. 

“Well, it’s very - Cardassian.”

“That would follow. It is, after all, a Cardassian station.”

Ziyal had lived in rooms like this all her childhood. Dark, low ceilinged, with lights and other fixtures favouring vaguely menacing shapes that were supposed to imitate weapons: sickles, daggers, axes… Hadn’t she come here to get as far away as possible from the past, *all* her past?

“I know that. I guess I expected the Federation, or the Bajorans, would have - changed it more.”

“Well, there’s a replicator and a Federation computer. And the furniture isn’t Cardassian. And look, there’s some flowers…”

“Right.”

There had probably been a whole team of exo-psychologists involved in the creation of the exact tone of powdery lilac for the sofa, and grey-in-grey for the carpet, designed to sooth the senses and dull emotions, and they had no doubt consulted with another team of exo-biologists and exo-sociologists in order to choose the one species of nondescript white flowers that would not have any meaning for any known species and would therefore be perfectly safe. The whole ensemble filled Ziyal with a profound sadness. 

“I know, I know”, Bashir said. “It’s - kind of dreary at first. But you can change it, make it more your own. You know, some pictures, some plants - maybe an aquarium?”

Ziyal looked at him. 

“Aquarium? Do I look like an aquarium person to you?”

Suddenly they both broke out laughing. Ziyal noticed how, in spite of him appearing to be quite young, the corners of his eyes crinkled. He sat in the sofa while Ziyal turned to inspect the the bare bulkheads.

“Books. Books will help”, she said, talking more to herself than to the doctor. “Do you know I had never seen one before I came to the University? I knew they existed, of course, but they are quite out of fashion in Cardassia, and my mother and my father weren’t really big readers anyway, and then in the camp - well, not much in the way of books there either. The first time they showed me the campus library, I - well, Dr. Bashir, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as that in my whole life.”

“Julian. You can call me Julian, if you want.”

“Only if you call me Ziyal. I noticed you used the Bajoran courtesy form. That’s very thoughtful, but I like the Cardassian way better.”

“See? There are *some* Cardassian things that you like.”

Ziyal turned to him with a strange expression on her face.

“I’m sorry, Ziyal. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t offend me. I think - I think you just said something that I didn’t want to hear.”

Bashir got up and walked towards her. Ziyal had to concentrate in order not to flinch. You have nothing to fear from this man, she told herself. Her mouth curved in a smile and she hoped very much he could believe it was sincere. She liked him, she really did. She just wished he were - not there right now. Please just don’t touch me. Please. 

“I know you have no reason to trust me or anyone. But I want you to know that you can come to me, anytime, for any reason, as a doctor, or as a friend, or anything in between. And I know right know you want me to be gone, and I am going to be, but I hope that, when you really need it, you remember what I just told you.”

“Thank you.” She couldn’t manage more than that. 

He had already opened the door and was about to step outside when she called after him.

“Dr. Bashir - I mean, Julian… is it true there are other Cardassians on the station?”

“They don’t come often, but yes, you might run into-“

“No, I mean, are there Cardassians actually living on the station?”

“Oh. You heard about Mr. Garak, then?”

“I told my father about my plan to live here for a while. He - told me about him, yes.”

If you have any kind of dealings with him, if you even so much as greet him when you pass his shop - and believe me, I will find out if you do - I will fly this ship straight to Deep Space 9, I will find him and I will slit his throat in the middle of a promenade. That was what Gul Dukat had to say about Elim Garak. 

“I’m sure he did.”

“Do you know him?”

“Well - when it refers to Mr. Garak, that is a more interesting question than you might expect. Let’s say I find him - fascinating. We do have a standing lunch date once a week. I could certainly introduce you, if-“

“No! I don’t want to meet him, or see him, I don’t want anything to do with him!”

Bashir seemed taken aback. And why shouldn’t he be, after such an absurd outburst. But there was no reproach in his answer, and just as she had chosen not to lie to him, now he returned the favor. 

“Of course you don’t have to meet him if you don’t want to. But not seeing him might be a bit more difficult. It’s a big station, but it’s not that big, and his shop is right on the promenade, so…”

“I’ll walk by it really fast.”

Was that a smile playing around his mouth? If only he would leave.

“I wouldn’t worry too much. He’s a private man and keeps to himself. With any luck, you won’t even know he’s on the station.”

“Do you think - do you think he knows about me?”

“There is very little about this station that Mr. Garak doesn’t know, most of the time several days before it actually happens. So yes, I do think he knows about you. But, like I said, he’s a private man. If you don’t seek him out, I very much doubt he’ll come to you.”

Ziyal opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.

“Just take your time to settle in. It will be fine. And, remember: anything you need, anything at all, you know where to find me.”

With a last reassuring smile, he left. Ten minutes later, a call came in to maintenance: 

“Hello, this is Tora Ziyal? I arrived on the station today, and I’m in the habitat ring, level 5, section 4. I… it seems I’ve had an accident while unpacking, there are several broken, uh, objects, and I will need another mirror in the bathroom, it seems to have broken as well. What do you mean, unbreakable? Well, this one broke, so maybe it was defective in the first place. Yes, I will be here. Oh, one more thing: do you know where I could order or replicate some bookcases? Yes, I can provide you with specifications.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal dances, has lunch with Dr. Bashir, and feels unwell. Mr. Garak has nothing to do with it.

The days were good. There was a structure to them, and Ziyal was deeply thankful for that. Although there was a good deal of non-military personnel on the station, most of her friends - Nerys, Julian, Jadzia - were military and worked and lived by a strict schedule that defined specific times for meals, work, and recreation, depending on which shift you were on. Following Julian’s suggestion Ziyal simply chose “alpha shift” and, just like that, it was all prearranged: when the others slept, she slept; when they got up, she got up; when they ate, she ate; when they worked, she studied; when she had free time, she exercised. Tialla had given her a copy of a dancing program as a parting gift, and sometimes she even used it in it’s original form - she liked the pure uselessness of it: no purpose, just a body moving to music, for no reason, expecting nothing. But most of the time she used a modified form of it that she had programmed herself. In a way, she was still dancing - only she never knew who her partners would be, or how many, or what weapons they would use. There was only one thing she knew: by the end of the program, all of them would be dead. 

The most exciting time of Ziyal’s days usually involved food: what to eat, when to eat, where to eat, with whom to eat. Although people kept saying that replicator food just didn’t taste as good, Ziyal was still in awe about all the choices that were just a voice command away, and often she ate alone in her quarters, indulging in exotic and extremely unhealthy combinations: fish and jam, gagh wrapped in pancakes, andorian pasta sprinkled with cocoa chips, and of course, the 3569 varieties of something that almost every species had by now agreed to call “swedish meatballs”. 

But she knew she had to be careful. A certain amount of shyness and reclusion would be understood; too much of it, and people would start to show up. Knock at her door, worry, maybe go as far as order medical and psychological evaluations. In short, it would get her the kind of attention she wanted to avoid at all costs. So she made sure to visit one of the food courts or Quark’s at regular intervals. There was also a standing dinner date with Kira once a week. Sometimes she would ask the major if she’d heard anything about her father’s ship. There was a curious emptiness in her stomach when she did that. But there never where any news, except that the ship was still out there, somewhere. Or at least that’s what Kira said.

There was also the occasional lunch with doctor Bashir. Once she mentioned to him how illogical it was that eating a meal with a man at a certain hour could be seen as an overture for romance, sex, or both, and was considered completely innocent and harmless at a certain other hour. He laughed and said she was completely right. But he had never asked her to join him for dinner, and neither had she. With Julian, Ziyal never had the feeling that he considered spending time with her her a duty - perhaps because it wasn’t. Kira felt an obligation to her, and Jadzia felt an obligation to Kira. Julian talked to her because he wanted to.

She waited a couple of weeks before bringing it up again. Who knew, perhaps he’d forgotten her reaction when they first talked about it. It was kind of common knowledge that Garak and Julian often talked about books during their lunches, so Ziyal subtly (or so she thought) directed the conversation towards literature and at one point casually (or so she thought) asked if maybe Mr. Garak had mentioned anything interesting she could read. 

Julian didn’t even have to look up from his plate for her to notice that he *did* remember her reaction. There was a certain over-eager friendliness about Julian Bashir at times, a forced down-to-earth, I’m-just-a-regular-guy attitude that Ziyal found irritating, but under that lay a sharp intelligence and an acute awareness. Of course he remembered. 

“As much, or as less, as usual. He’s a creature of habits.”

“Interesting choice of a word. Creature.”

“It’s just an expression, Ziyal. I just meant he likes his routines.”

“I know what it means.”

Carefully, almost in slow motion, Julian put down his fork beside his plate of pasta primavera. 

“What is it you want to know, Ziyal?”

Tora clenched her fists. She didn’t like how he was looking at her. She didn’t like it at all. 

Ziyal took a breath, then another.

“All right, fine. I’ll admit it. I’m curious about him. Happy now?”

“Only natural.”

“Do not patronise me, Dr. Bashir.”

“I’m not patronising you. Everyone is curious about Mr. Garak. He wants it that way. He needs to keep people guessing.”

“Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of keeping to himself? I thought he was a private man. That’s what you said.”

“Not necessarily. It’s just another way of being in control, of manipulating what others think about him, how they behave with him. Not unlike you.”

Ziyal was so surprised that Tora didn’t even have time to react.

“Me?”

“Garak purposefully cultivates an air of mystery, even a certain understated danger. You, on the other hand, go out of your way to appear simple and plain, almost bland. Come to think of it, your father does it too: he goes to a lot of trouble to make people think he’s very violent, borderline psychotic.”

“But he isn’t?”

“Not as much as he wants us to believe, I think. Same as Garak probably isn’t as dangerous as he pretends to be, and you certainly aren’t as simple as you pretend to be. Maybe it’s a Cardassian thing.”

“First of all, I’m not a Cardassian. And second, how did this turn into a conversation about me?”

“Garak would say: aren’t we all talking about ourselves, even when we pretend to be talking about other people?”

“Ok, you know what - forget it. It was a stupid question and I got a stupid answer. Point taken. You have a nice day, Julian.”

Since throwing her napkin on the floor with a flourish would have been a foolish gesture to top off a foolish conversation, Ziyal placed it beside her plate, still almost full of artichoke salad with yamok sauce, and stood up. 

“You’ve eaten almost nothing.”

“I’m not hungry.” Her stomach was beginning to hurt, and nausea was setting in. Ziyal hoped she could make it to her quarters without throwing up somewhere in a corridor. 

“Ziyal… I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Ziyal couldn’t decide if he was sincere or not. He probably was, but what did it matter?

“It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. You’re unwell.”

“Yes, I am.” She never would have thought she could admit it so freely, but all of a sudden she felt as if a cocoon surrounded her, and that cocoon was full of cotton. She could almost taste it, feel it on her skin. Her stomach didn’t hurt anymore, there was no nausea. There was nothing. She was just so tired. And for the first time, Ziyal asked Tora for help. Please just help me get to my quarters. Just get me there. I don’t want to faint here. I don't want to die. 

Bashir was still talking, saying something about going to sickbay, and Ziyal heard her voice answer, but she couldn’t make out what she was saying. The doctor’s face set into a neutral expression.

“Very well. I’ll check in on you later to see how you’re doing.”

Whatever. 

“And, Ziyal?”

She stopped, her back already turned to him. 

“I really do think you should meet Mr. Garak.”

She reached her quarters without falling and without stepping out of an airlock. With a little whimper of relief, Ziyal curled up behind the sofa, where it felt the safest, and waited for Tora to berate her as the pathetic creature she was. But Tora only said: you owe me. And Ziyal thought, yes. I owe you.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal has a drink and meets someone knew. She doesn't like him.

Bashir did show up later, and although her inside still felt like an open wound, Ziyal knew better than to refuse to see him. She had showered, and changed into something that Jadzia had introduced her to, called pyjamas, which made her feel a tiny bit better, and arranged some books on the table, as if she was studying, or at least reading, thus making a show of being a functioning part of - whatever it was out there that people functioned in. She told him it must have been the artichokes, they always upset her stomach but she loved them so. “Whenever you see me order them, just smack me real hard on the head”, she grinned. After that grin, there was not very much Bashir could do, although she could all but see the word THERAPY flash behind his eyes. 

“About Mr. Garak…”

“Oh, Garak, Shmarak. Haven’t we spent enough time talking about him?”

“You are the one who brought it up, Ziyal. Two times. And both times you had quite - extreme reactions.”

“Well, then maybe you should smack me over the head whenever I talk about Mr. Garak.”

“Ziyal…”

“Julian. Please.” She got up and offered him her best earnest face. It always worked with Kira, but then Kira was not a highly intelligent and trained healer and psychologist. Kira was good at reading people in battle situations, to assess how and when and where they would move. How they felt after the battle, or why, didn’t interest her very much, because she thought it wasn’t useful to her. 

“Look, I got a bit - obsessed with this Garak, I’ll admit it. There are all these rumours about him, and I haven’t really met many Cardassians, and then… you know how it is, as soon as someone tells you not to do something, suddenly it’s all you want to do. But it is sort of silly, isn’t it? I mean, all this fuss about a simple tailor.”

“Right. A simple tailor.”

“So I’ve been thinking: why don’t you just introduce us? We’ll just walk into his shop, we’ll shake hands, and then we can just nod at each other when we meet at a replimat, like normal people.” Ziyal felt an ice hand between her shoulder blades when she said “shake hands”, but not having to slouch around corners in fear of meeting the infamous Mr. Garak did have a certain appeal. What was there to be afraid of, after all? 

Being afraid is how you survive, Ziyal. Don’t you remember?   
It doesn’t feel like I’m surviving now, Tora. It really doesn’t.   
Because it’s not supposed to feel good. That’s what life is. Suffering. And I’m not leaving until you’ve learned it. Until I know you’re safe.

“Ziyal? Are you ok?”

“What? Oh, yes. I think I haven’t quite gotten rid of the artichokes… So, what do you think.”

“I think it’s actually a very good idea, Ziyal. You just tell me whenever you feel up to it.”

“I will.”

Before walking out, he stopped to look at her again. It was something he did a lot, walk away and then turn suddenly, as if he wanted to catch her doing something he wasn’t supposed to see. Usually he smiled and waved, but today he said: “I’m proud of you, Ziyal. I think you are doing remarkably well.”

Scratch his face. Throw something. Slit her wrists. Hug him. Cry and cry and cry until the room was full of tears and they could both drown. Since she couldn’t decide what she wanted to do more, Ziyal settled for a simple: “Thank you.”

 

The next day was a Tuesday, and Tuesday meant dinner with Kira at Quark’s. They sat down at their usual place at the second level, looking down at the dabo table, and the conversation started as it always started, with Kira complaining about how noisy it was, to which Ziyal responded that she didn’t mind going somewhere else, after which Kira invariably said: “Oh, never mind. I’m too tired to go anywhere else, and it’s not like there are so many other choices anyway. Besides, the place is not important, the important thing is that we are together.” Ziyal hadn’t managed to figure out if Kira was even aware of saying the exact same thing and smiling the exact same smile every time. 

So they ordered food (which Kira always complained about) and talked about what they had been doing during the week: in Kira’s case, mostly about who she’d won against at springball, and about the religious services she’d attended, especially if a vedek from Bajor had visited the station, which happened rather often. It amazed Ziyal how enthusiastic Kira could get about a new interpretation of an obscure passage of a scroll that was a thousand years old and of unclear origin. How she managed to still believe the aliens who lived in the wormhole were gods, and that the Commander was “the Emissary”. Kira had invited Ziyal to attend services with her, but Ziyal had said she didn’t feel she was ready, and Kira didn’t press her further. What Ziyal didn’t say was that she was indeed curious about Bajoran religion: she had read quite a bit about it and was actually dying to go to a service - but not with Kira. Not with her judging eyes on her. 

Then they talked about what Ziyal had read and studied during the week, but instead of a free flowing conversation, to which each part brought their own experiences and tastes, like it was with Julian, with Kira this always felt more like an exam, as if each week she was evaluating Ziyal’s right to stay on the station. Ziyal knew it wasn’t so, and that Kira genuinely appreciated her and was interested in her progress. It was just something about Kira that kept her on her guard. More than usual, that is. 

They’d had, what, three, four meals like this? Today, after her latest breakdown, the prospect of an infinity of tuesdays at Quark’s stretching out before her into the future made Ziyal feel short of breath. But she wasn’t having another breakdown. This was something else. 

“I need a drink”, Ziyal said.

“A drink?” Judging by Kira’s tone, Ziyal might as well have said “I need to drink a bottle of lye right now.”

“It is a bar, isn’t it? And yet we’ve never been to the actual bar, we’re always sitting here, looking down at it.”

“Yes, because down there it’s always crowded and up here you can at least breathe, not to mention actually hearing what the other person is saying.”

“Well, you don’t have to stay. I’m perfectly capable of having a drink on my own.”

Kira tensed. Not a very smart thing to say, Ziyal. You need to look helpless, she has to believe you need her. She has to believe you’re innocent. Everyone has to. 

“It’s just… I thought we could do something different. They all seem to be having so much fun, and don’t think I’ve ever done that, you know? Just sit at a bar and have a drink. You probably think it’s ridiculous.”

That’s better. Lower your eyes, smile shyly. Appeal to her pity, make her feel guilty. Sure enough, a minute later they were both sitting down at the bar, in front of them a couple of enormous glasses shaped like fish bowls, filled with an orange liquid. It wasn’t exactly what Ziyal had had in mind when she said she needed a drink, but it was better than water. Probably. 

Kira was eyeing her drink as if it might attack her, then looked around the bar, possibly looking for help to defeat it. And she found it.

“Commander Riker!”

Coming towards them from the direction of the dabo tables, sporting a Starfleet Command uniform and a broad grin was possibly the most imposing man Ziyal had ever seen. He was as tall as her father, if not taller, had a massive chest, an many many white teeth gleaming in his mouth. 

“Major Kira. What’s a girl like you doing in a bar like this?”

“I might ask you the same thing.”

“Are you implying that I look especially girly tonight.”

“You said it. I didn’t.”

Ziyal had never seen Kira act as openly flirty as this. It didn’t suit her. But Ziyal had to admit it was rather difficult not to start acting a little silly around this man. There was something about him. Kira introduced him to Ziyal as William Riker, First Officer of the Enterprise, and by the way she said it, and the flash is Riker’s eyes, Ziyal gathered that “Enterprise” meant something special. Then, just as she thought he was going to say something silly and flirty to her too, Riker stopped. Just for a beat, really, but long enough to create an uncomfortable silence. 

He has seen something. He knows something, Tora warned.  
What can he know? Today is the first time he’s seen me.  
He’s Starfleet. What do you know about Lamar? Maybe he had dealings with Starfleet. Maybe Riker is here to investigate. Maybe they are already onto you. Go. Now. 

But Ziyal knew better. Leaving now, after she had begged Kira to have a drink, would make her look even more suspicious - if anyone actually suspected her of anything. So she smiled, and sipped at her drink and talked about food, her preferred topic for small talk. She didn’t look into Riker’s eyes once, and he didn’t flirt with her once. After fifteen minutes, Ziyal said she was very tired and really had to go to bed. 

“Can I walk you to your quarters?”

“No, you can’t.”

Out of the corner of her eye Ziyal could see Kira’s shocked expression at her rudeness, but Riker just nodded. 

“Then I wish you a good night, Ms. Tora.”

“Good night.”

That night, standing by the viewport in her quarters, Ziyal recalled his expression when he first looked at her. It had almost been a sort of shock, a recognition. And after that, something else… No, not wariness, or disgust, or even glee, as might be expected of someone who had just identified a murder suspect. 

Pity. For just one moment, William Riker had looked at her with such pity. And she had no idea why.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal is invited to have dinner with Commander Sisko. He gives her some books and asks her some questions. Also, there's cake.

9.

She’d felt it before, but after meeting William Riker the feeling intensified: everything was on the brink of disappearing, and everyone’s job seemed to be just to push back, to keep things existing for one more day. Everyone that was someone, that is - Kira, Jadzia, Julian, and people like Riker. Everyone else’s job, especially Ziyal’s, was to keep out of the way as much as possible. 

Which was why Ziyal was so astonished when Kira told her Commander Sisko had invited them both to dinner at their quarters, together with Bashir, Jadzia, and a few others. A regular party. Ziyal was horrified. Was this an elaborate set-up? Maybe this Riker person had told the Commander everything about her and they just wanted to get her into a small space with a lot of people to overpower her more easily? If that was the plan, they were certainly in for a surprise. 

Next saturday, 7 hundred hours station time, Tora Ziyal stepped into the Commander’s quarters, wearing her best dress and three small knives hidden on her person. The Commander and the other guests greeted her warmly - including Commander William T. Riker, of the Starship Enterprise, who was there for a number of strategy meetings with Starfleet personnel and the Bajoran militia. So she was told. Again, the look of recognition and regret on his face when he looked at her. She could feel his eyes on her all through the evening, but they didn’t talk much, and if he knew something about her, it became clear very soon that he had no intention of revealing it - yet. Soon they were all sitting around the dinner table, eating something delicious and spicy apparently called Gum-Bo, and Ziyal began to realise whose idea this party really had been, and why she was here. 

Sisko definitely *was* a diplomat, and it was all very subtle. He started out asking about her time at the University, about the people she’d met there and how she liked them. Tora felt for the knife hidden in her sleeve, but Sisko switched the conversation to her studies. He seemed genuinely interested in her choice of literature as her main field of study and launched into a little speech about the wonders of fiction, followed by a rather predictable sigh about how much he loved to read and how little time he had for it. Suddenly, he jumped up, went into the bedroom, and came back with a couple of volumes, beautifully bound in what looked like authentic leather. 

“Here, I want you to have these.”

“But Commander, I could’t possibly…”

But she was already opening them, caressing their pages, making them hers. “Middlemarch”, by George Eliot. 

Explain! Tell a man to explain why he dropped into hell! Explain my preference! I never had a preference for her, any more than I have a preference for breathing. No other woman exists by the side of her. I would rather touch her hand if it were dead, than I would touch any other woman’s living.

“Why, captain Sisko, it’s a love story!”

Was he blushing? Ziyal could have sworn his colour had shifted.

“It’s more of a - social story. It’s about a small town in England, quite deep in Earths’s past. I find it fascinating how little about human passions and relationships has changed since then.”

“Thank you very much for the suggestion, captain. I’ll get a copy for my padd, but I can’t take these. They seem valuable.”

“But I thought you collected them.”

Ziyal glanced over at Julian, who didn’t blush in the slightest. Sisko smiled, his trademark broad smile. 

“Please, take them. They have kept me company for many years. Now, they can keep *you* company.” 

“Because I need them more?”

“Yes.”

Now everyone was smiling, as if she had won a prize. See?, they seemed to say. We’re all good friends here, nothing to be suspicious of. We talk of books and love and the finer things in life. Tora’s knife was still in it’s place. The questions started with dessert. Had she heard from her father. Hadn’t she been on his ship before going to the University on Bajor. Why had she decided to leave. All very casual, between bites of a really very good cake of a deep purple colour. 

“It was all quite violent, Commander. I think I’ve had my fill of violence for a long while. Hopefully, for the rest of my life.”

“Of course, I understand. Still, it must be hard to be away from your father…”

“It’s the life he has chosen, and I respect that. But he never wanted me there, and after a few days, I understood why. As much as I want to be with him, I could never live like that.”

Ziyal made sure her voice trembled just a little. Her fork fell to the floor, and there, much faster than she would have thought possible for such a big man, was Riker, picking it up and putting it back on the table. Looking straight into her eyes. 

He wants something. The thought went through her like a flash, and with it went the certainty that it had nothing to do with Lamar Torel. As fast and as silent as he had come, he as back at the other end of the room again, speaking to Jadzia. 

A second later, Ziyal felt Commander Sisko’s hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry to have brought it up.”

Ziyal said: “I don’t think you are.” 

The conversations stopped. Jadzia raised an eyebrow. Kira said “Ziyal!”, but a look from Odo kept her from saying anything else. This was obviously not something you said to Commander Sisko, but he, to his credit, didn’t flinch. 

“I am sorry to have hurt your feeling or caused you grief. But I am not sorry to have asked those questions, that is true. There are things I need to know.”

“Of course, Commander. My father is a dangerous man, and it is your duty to gather as much information about him as you can. I am his daughter and probably the person closest to him right now. It would be foolish not to try and get some information out of me. What did I see? What did he tell me? What did he do? Is he on contact with me somehow? Here I am, living on your station, stuffing myself with your food, doing nothing for my keep. What’s a little harmless information in return for all that?”

Even Sisko looked flustered now, and Jadzia had raised both eyebrows, which somehow made her look very young. Odo had his hand on Kira’s shoulder, but the look on the Major’s face was strained. Bashir leaned back on the couch and tucked into his second piece of cake, seemingly unaware that there was anything out of the ordinary going on. A slight smile played around William Riker’s mouth. 

“I agree with you, Commander. You need information and I will give you what I have, because what else can I give you? Did my father tell me things? Oh yes, Commander, he did. He told me that he loved me very much, that he was glad he didn’t kill me. Because he should have, did you know that? I’m a bastard, my mother was a Bajoran, I am the lowest creature there is. But he loves me, and he told me so, many times. He said that I should leave him and go and learn about the world, because he had a mission, and with me by his side he couldn’t fulfil his duty. Did I see things? Oh yes, I saw things. I saw dirt and sweat and blood and soldiers. Bored soldiers, unhappy soldiers, drunk soldiers, soldiers who wanted to get me into their bunks but were too afraid to even look at me because they knew my father would kill them without a second thought. Oh, and I saw some rats, too. Very fat ones. Do you think I could have another piece of cake? It *is* delicious, Commander. Did you make it yourself?”

That night, for the first time in years, Ziyal slept well. She placed the books the Commander had given her on her nightstand, and the smell of leather and musty pages lulled her to sleep. In her dreams, she wandered a very large, very fine hall, lined with books from floor to ceiling, the biggest library there existed. Somewhere in this library, she knew, there was a man, and the man was sewing a dress for her. She could see it, in her dream, a dress of a purple shade, with gold stitching. It was a good feeling to know that someone, somewhere, was making something for her. 

The next morning, before the dream and the feeling of well-being that had come with it had completely dissipated, Ziyal made a call.

“Tora Ziyal to doctor Bashir. If you are not too busy, do you think it would be possible to make our little visit to the tailor’s shop today? In half an hour? Perfect, I’ll meet you there.”

Getting dressed in front of the mirror, Tora made one, two, three slashed across her breast with one of her little knifes. It wouldn’t have been necessary, though. Ziyal remembered who she was.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal and doctor Bashir visit Mr. Garak's shop. They talk about embroidery, and Ziyal and Garak come to an agreement.

10.

Elim Garak was standing at his workstation in the middle of his shop, sewing. When Ziyal and Bashir entered, he placed the needle very carefully on the piece of fabric he had been working on. It was a real steel needle, not a micro-laser one. One of the deadliest weapons there are, when used right, Tora noticed with approval. When he’s not looking, you should take one for yourself.

“Ah, my dear doctor. Such a rare and welcome sight in my humble shop. This dreary day is brightened by your presence. And of course your enchanting companion, miss…?”

As if he didn’t know who she was. As if he hand’t been waiting for her. As if he hadn’t known. 

“Tora Ziyal. Ziyal, this is the famous… tailor, Mr. Garak.”

He didn’t shake her hand, just bowed his head in her direction. Ziyal bowed back. She had looked into the eyes of men who were about to lose their lives at her hands, but she had never seen a man closer to full blown panic than Mr. Elim Garak, the famous tailor, at this very moment. This was when she was supposed to smile, do some small talk, and basically give him the message that she was not here to kill him on her father’s behalf. Then, she could leave and get on with her life, hopefully one less burden on her mind. 

That was the plan. There was only one problem with it: she could not speak. The panic she had detected for a second in Garak’s eyes had somehow gripped her own body: she couldn’t scream, she couldn’t run, and Tora - Tora was mute. Without saying a single word, Ziyal turned away and started to wander around the shop, pretending to be enraptured by the dresses displayed on mannequins and several racks, trying to control her breathing and to keep tears from pouring down her cheeks. The fresh cuts across her chest burned like fire. What’s the use of having a split personality if you can’t even count on it on occasions like these, she thought furiously. She didn’t even realise then that this was the first time that she had acknowledged to herself, if ever so fleetingly, that she *had* a split personality, that Tora was actually a part of herself. 

After a very long minute, when Ziyal thought she actually might be able to talk, she approached the doctor and Garak. They weren’t staring at her, as she half had expected, but were animatedly discussing the latest station gossip about Leeta, one of the dabo girls, and a Starfleet security officer named Dobson or maybe Dodson, who had put a very public end to their relationship at Quark’s a couple of nights ago. Apparently, furniture had been thrown.

They turned to her, Bashir trying to conceal how much he regretted bringing her there, and Garak with friendly detachment, the moment of panic she had detected long gone. Detachment, and something else, something she had seen not very long ago in Commander Riker’s eyes. Elim Garak was looking at her with pity. Suddenly, Tora woke up and decided she would very much like to rip his throat out with her bare teeth. 

“You have a very nice shop, Mr. Garak.”

“Thank you. It is modest, of course, but I like to think that in my small way I am contributing to bring a little beauty into the Universe.”

“Yes, there are some very nice, um, pieces in here.”

“It goes without saying that any friend of the doctor will get a special prize. Was there anything in particular you were interested in?”

“How much is this?” Ziyal held up the piece he had been working on when they came in. It was a light shade of purple, with gold embroidery in an ornamental spiral pattern. It looked like silk but was velvety to the touch quite heavy.

“Ah. Bolian embroidery. Very rare, very beautiful. Very difficult to handle.”

“Meaning I couldn’t afford it?”

“Meaning this is not the kind of fabric you buy for yourself. This should be given to you, out of admiration for your beauty, your mind, your strength.”

His words seemed to probe her, and there was nothing detached about the way he looked at her now. 

“So instead of just buying something nice for myself because I like it, I have to wait for that special someone to discover all those qualities in me and somehow be inspired by them to give me precisely what I want, is that it? How very progressive.”

“Progress is overrated. That is my personal opinion, although I am aware that it is not a popular one.”

“There’s a place for tradition, and there’s a place for progress. A society needs both to keep alive”, Bashir said. 

“Well said, well said! As always, you are as articulate as you are inspiring, my dear doctor.”

“I’m sure this is all being a fascinating learning experience for poor uneducated me, but you still haven’t answered my question. How. Much. Is it.”

Ziyal was still holding the piece of Bolian embroidery, she could see how the sweat from her hands had moistened the fabric, turning it a darker, almost brownish color. Her touch had turned something precious and delicate into a useless piece of trash. 

Gently, Garak took it out of her hand. “It is not for sale, Miss Tora. Not yet, anyway.”

“Don’t call me Tora. I am not Bajoran, and you know perfectly well everyone calls me Ziyal.”

“Indeed, I do beg your pardon - Ziyal.”

“I didn’t come here to be patronised, Mr. Garak.”

“No one is patronising you, Ziyal”, said Bashir. “Maybe we should just…”

“I am not going to kill you.”

Garak just nodded, as if all along he had been expecting her to say exactly that at that exact moment. 

“That is good to know.”

“You know what I’m speaking about. You know who I am, you know who my father is.” 

“Yes, my dear, I do know that.” 

“That is what I came to say to you today: I am not going to kill you. All right? My father doesn’t like you, a lot of people don’t trust you, but that has nothing to do with me. I just want to live my life quietly, like you do. I will not bother you if you will not bother me. And that includes patronising me, which I don’t like. I don’t like it at all.”

“I see. Well, that seems like a very reasonable arrangement to me. No bothering, no patronising.”

They stood looking at each other for a moment. Not five minutes ago she was on the verge of having a panic attack, and now the thought of leaving this place made her feel heartbroken. What the fuck is wrong with you? She wanted Tora to be asking her this, but it was her own voice. 

“Goodbye, Mr. Garak.”

“My friends call me Elim.”

“We are not friends.”

“I suppose we are not. Goodbye then, my - Ziyal. I assume I shouldn’t hold this for you?”

He held up the embroidery, the dark patch where Ziyal had held it clearly visible. Without another word or look, she turned and left, a confused doctor in tow. After they had turned the corner and were out of sight of Garak’s shop, Bashir asked: “Are you all right, Ziyal?”

“I’m getting a little tired of you asking me that, doctor. I’m fine, why shouldn’t I be?”

“I’m asking as a friend, not as a doctor. It’s what friends do.”

“Then maybe we shouldn’t be friends either.”

As Ziyal walked away, Bashir didn’t follow and he didn’t call after her. Ten or twenty meters into the next corridor, Ziyal’s legs just gave out and she crumpled against a bulkhead. That’s where William Riker found her.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Riker and Tora Ziyal have a conversation. Riker shares a secret. Ziyal takes a nap.

11\. 

“If you call doctor Bashir, or anyone else, I swear I will kill you. I will. Just go away, leave me alone. Why won’t everybody just leave me alone?”

Riker didn’t go away, but he didn’t touch his communicator either. Instead, he sat down beside her, leaning against the bulkhead. 

Talking to Garak and then, walking away from Bashir, Ziyal had felt light and strangely exhilarated. She had felt - powerful, like there was some kind of an electric current surging through her. At moments it had seemed to her that it was neither Ziyal nor Tora speaking, but some other being, infinitely wiser and more enlightened than she could ever hope to be. Now whatever it was had seeped out of her body and her mind and had left her empty. All she wanted was to sit there until she herself became a bulkhead. She knew she could do it if she just concentrated hard enough. If it wasn’t for that Riker person sitting next to her…

Finally Ziyal came to the conclusion that ignoring him wasn’t going to make him leave. 

“What do you want?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“Why are you following me?”

“I am not following you.”

“That’s a lie. Everywhere I go, either you’re already there, or you turn up soon after.”

“Maybe we just move in the same circles.”

“Circles my ass. You - you’re watching me. You’re always lurking somewhere, behind me, around the corner, and you always have this - look. You want something, so whatever it is, why don’t you just tell me straight out and get it over with.”

Maybe he’s already told them. Maybe they are already on their way. They are getting their phasers ready because he’s told them she’s dangerous. Ziyal could almost see the look on Kira’s face - not disappointed, and not surprised. She expected this and she’s smiling, she’s looking forward to taking Ziyal down. She’s been *anticipating* this. 

Let them come, Ziyal thought. Let them come. I will not move. I will not move. 

“Are you all right?”

Riker was not touching her, but she could feel his face close to hers. She opened her eyes and for a second, it was Garak’s face she saw, those blue eyes that to her were darker than the blackest black. Then he was gone, and Riker’s eyes weren’t dark at all. He was saying something, something about how she should try to breathe, which was of course ridiculous, how was she supposed to breathe when her chest burned like this, and her feet and her hands were so cold, and there was no air, how was she supposed to breathe with no fucking air? 

Then Riker was holding her and somehow she *was* breathing, and she was sobbing and holding on to him, because what else was there. He was telling her that it would be all right, and she shouldn’t be afraid, and all she could think of saying was: “I wish I was a stone.”

“I know”, he said. 

Ziyal couldn’t have said if they had stayed like that for minutes or hours. After a while she sat up straight again and tried to clean up her face with the sleeves of her dress, with mixed results. Then she looked back at him.

“You’ve come to get me, haven’t you? For what I did, at the University.”

She had meant for it to sound defiant, to show him, to show everyone she didn’t care, but it came out weak and quivery. How can you be so pathetic, Tora hissed, but even she felt weak and somehow distant in Ziyal’s mind.

Riker took her hands and looked her in the eyes. 

“No, Ziyal. I have not come to get you. Whatever it is you did, or you think you did, I don’t care, and it is not the reason why I’m here right now.”

He’s trying to distract you, Tora warned. He thinks you’re weak now, he thinks you trust him because you’ve allowed him to grope you and you got your snot all over his pretty uniform. 

“Ziyal? Are you here?”

“Where else would I be?”

“You seemed - distracted. As if you were listening to someone else, maybe.”

“There’s no one else here.”

“Exactly. There’s just you and me, Ziyal and Will, no one else. Just Ziyal and Will, talking. Do you think we could talk for a little while now? Do you feel up to that?”

“I don’t know…” 

“Do you remember what you said right now? That you wished you were a stone?”

“That’s a stupid thing to say.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid. I think it’s actually a very sad thing to say, and what I want to tell you is that I understand, that I know how you’re feeling.”

Although listening to his voice was actually making her feel a little better, Ziyal was not about to tell Riker that, and she certainly didn’t believe he knew anything about how she felt. To show him just how ridiculous he was, she snorted, and a string of snot came shooting out of her nose. Luckily, Riker didn’t see that final bit of humiliation. He was looking at the floor in front of him now. There was something vaguely artificial about his breathing, as if he was consciously trying to control it.

“For me, it was frost giants,” he said.

“What?”

“You said you wanted to be a stone. When I was a child, I wanted to be a frost giant.”

“What’s a frost giant?”

“They are magical beings from norse mythology. Basically giants - made of ice.”

“Aha.”

“The important thing was to turn myself into something that didn’t feel, that couldn’t be hurt. Something as near to dead as possible.”

He looked at Ziyal. If he was expecting her to speak, he had a long wait ahead of him, because she had her mouth shut so hard that her jaws hurt. 

“The reason why I wanted to become a frost giant was that - some bad stuff was happening to me. A lot of really bad stuff. I was being hurt, and others were being hurt, people I cared about, and there was nothing I could do about it because I was little, so I-“

“I’m not little.”

“No, you’re not. But you were, not so long ago. How old are you?”

“None of your business.”

“Right. It’s not about age, anyway, it’s about feeling helpless. Like when you were at that camp…”

“Don’t you dare talk to me about that. You know nothing about that. You know nothing about me.”

She had intended to scream at him, but it came out flat, as if she was talking about the weather. 

“I know a little. I know you haven’t had an easy life. I know you feel scared and confused a lot of the time, and I know you hate to show it. I know that the one thing you hate more than to talk about your feelings is when others talk to you about your feelings. Am I getting close?”

Ziyal said nothing, and he continued. 

“The reason why I know all this is that I’ve felt the same way for a great part of my life. And I thought it was all my fault, but it wasn’t. It took a lot of time, and a lot of good people, to make me realise that. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but one of the good things that came out of it was that I can recognise it now. In myself, and in others. So when we first met, that night at Quark’s, I thought I saw it in you, this - helplessness. This sickness. There’s a certain way we move, a way we look at people we don’t know.”

Who are you to say “we”, Ziyal thought. Or maybe it was Tora. 

“So you were right, I was following you - well, a little bit. I was hoping we could talk, maybe get to know each other a bit better…”

“Why? You obviously already know everything there is to know about me.”

Riker sighed and started to get up.

“You’re right. I’ve made a mess of this, haven’t I?”

He shrugged, which made him look about twelve years old. Rather than having to look up to this tower of a man from a sitting position, Ziyal stood up as well. Not without surprise she noticed that her legs were indeed supporting her. 

“I’m sorry”, Riker said. “I will understand if you never want to see me or hear from me again. But if you ever need to talk, or any kind of help, you just have to contact me.”

“Why? Why is this so important to you?”

“I told you: I was very sick, and I only survived because I had people around who cared for me. If I can do the same for someone else, I will.”

“But those were your friends. You just met me.”

“Some of them became my friends *because* they helped me, they didn’t know me before either. And of course I hated all of them for wanting to help, at first. But they were really - persistent.”

“I’m guessing that’s another thing you learned.”

He grinned, and this time, Ziyal couldn’t hold it back, the words just flew out of her mouth: “You do have a *lot* of teeth!”

At that, Will Riker positively doubled over with laughter, and it was so contagious that, in spite of everything she felt, in spite of everything that had happened, Ziyal started laughing as well. 

“Oh man, wait until I tell this to Jean-Luc.”

“Jean who?”

“Uh, Picard. Captain Jean-Luc Picard. He’s my - he’s the captain of the Enterprise.”

“One of your - friends?”

“Yes.” He said that very softly. 

There didn’t seem to be much left to say after that. Riker walked Ziyal to her quarters and asked if she would be all right. She said yes and didn’t return his look long enough to see if he believed her. 

A quarter of an hour later, a message with the subject “Just In Case” appeared on Ziyal’s console: it contained instructions on how to contact Commander Riker through official Starfleet channels, including something called a “priority code”. Ziyal’s finger hovered over the “delete” button, but suddenly she felt tired, so tired… What did a frost giant look like? And what was that embroidery Garak had shown her, Deltan? Betazoid? So beautiful…

When she woke up three hours later, curled up in front of her computer, Ziyal hit “save”, then ran to the bathroom just in time to throw up in the sink. “Another wonderful day on Deep Space 9”, she said to the mirror, wishing she felt strong enough to break it again.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While deciding whether or not to keep the promise she made Garak, Ziyal reflects upon her past.

That night, when she passed in front of Garak’s shop, Ziyal saw a light there. There was never light in Garak’s shop at night. She knew this because she had passed his shop every night since the day she arrived on the station.

Since she was a little girl, Ziyal couldn’t remember sleeping more than two or three hours in a row. Nights like the last one (had it only been last night?) after the dinner with the Commander, didn’t really happen. Judging by the results, she decided that this whole idea of going to bed, sleeping, having pleasant dreams and waking up refreshed, in a good mood and ready to tackle life was vastly overrated. Or maybe, more simply, it just wasn’t for people like her. 

He’s waiting for you, Tora said. He knows you were lying.  
I wasn’t lying, Ziyal said. I said I wasn’t going to kill him, and I won’t. And I’m not going in there. He’s not waiting for me. He has nothing to do with me. He’s already forgotten about me.  
Just as well, Tora said. That will only make it easier.  
They stood and watched. Inside, a stocky man with pale blue eyes that looked darker than they were was bent over a piece of delicate embroidery, a fine steel needle in his hand. 

Her mother used to sew as well. There wasn’t much else to do - books made her impatient, cooking bored her, and going out was always a risk: Gul Dukat’s Bajoran lover and her bastard daughter would be a prime target for the resistance. They were always moving from one shelter to the other, one strange house to the next, sometimes luxurious, other times no more than huts, always in fear of being discovered. If Dukat could only stay with them, her mother used to plead with him, no one would dare come near them, and they could all be together, be happy, be a family. Dukat would smile, and stroke Naprem’s beautiful auburn hair, and before he left again, he would give her a new necklace or some earrings. Sometimes she insisted, cried, accused him of being cruel, of never having loved her or their daughter. Then is smile got fixed on his lips, and he wasn’t stroking Naprem’s hair anymore, but grabbing it with his fist, and calling her “Tora”. He always called her mother Tora when he needed to hurt her, so she would understand how difficult his position was, what he was sacrificing for her, for them. 

He always apologised. It was the stress, he said, the responsibilities of his position. He kissed them and left and didn’t say when he’d be back. “Soon”, he’d say, “very soon, my darlings. You’ll see.” And then at night there would be the sound of her mother’s footsteps in the next room, up and down, up and down, every night. From the minute he left she was waiting for him to come back, and from the minute he came, she was fearing the moment he would leave. So Ziyal would go and make her a hot drink and sit with her until she fell asleep. Every night. “Your father will come soon”, she would say, “he said so.” Ziyal would answer “yes, of course he will. He said so. Go to sleep now, mother.” Ziyal slept in the afternoons, while her mother was sitting by the window, when they had one, sewing pretty dresses that she thought might please Dukat and that would go with the jewellery he had given her. 

Naprem believed him when he said they were all going to live together on Lissepia. He was tired of fighting, he said. If her fellow Bajorans didn’t want to accept the influence of Cardassian civilisation, they could stay in the Middle Ages, for all he cared. They would lead a quiet life, he promised, maybe on a little farm, near a river, he knew just the place. Ziyal couldn’t imagine her father or her mother doing any kind of farm work. When he said goodbye, before her mother and her boarded the ship, her mother chatting happily about their little farm, Ziyal cried, because she loved her father, and she knew she wouldn’t see him again. In her sleeve she had hidden a couple of small scissors from her mother’s sewing kit. 

She lost the scissors in the crash, but she soon found other small sharp objects to replace them. The knives in her sleeves became a part of her. At night, Ziyal felt the hot desert sand beneath her feet, took what she needed from drooling, snoring men and sometimes, when she needed to, Tora made sure, with one swift, silent movement, that those men never drooled on anything, or anyone, again. Tora didn’t like it when bad things happened to Ziyal.

Curiously enough, she couldn’t remember ever sleeping at the camp, although she must have done it, of course. Probably during the days. She didn’t remember the days very well either. The was work, hitting stones, carrying them on her back, again and again. There was hunger and thirst, unbearable heat. Other things happened, sometimes, during the days, when all the men were awake and they could surround her, five, six, more, laughing and roaring. Ziyal didn’t remember that. In her memory, the years at the camp were one long night, and her eyes were always very open and as long as Tora was there no one, no one, could come near her. And Tora would never leave her. Ever. 

It was Tora who told her that Dukat would not kill her. Ziyal was afraid of him when she first saw him, after so many years, his eyes wild, his mouth fixed into that smile he’d had when she was a child. The Bajoran woman talked to him, and he lowered his weapon, but Tora had seen it before: he won’t hurt you, she said. How do you know?, Ziyal asked. Because he loves you, Tora said, and Ziyal could taste the contempt, bitter and slimy in her mouth. 

Tora wanted to stay on Dukat’s ship. The violence, the death, even the filth - that was how life should be. But Dukat saw only his little Ziyal, and sent her off. Go, learn, he said. Make a life of your own. And Ziyal went, because she always went where people told her to go. Again, she made nights her own: she stayed awake, poured through book after book, dutifully marvelling at everything that was being offered to her, enjoying even the parts she didn’t understand at all. Maybe she even enjoyed those parts most of all. 

That’s when she forgot everything about the camp, all the little details that had been so important: who had a new weapon, who was angry at whom, who had stolen whose food, who had fresh food and whose food was rotten, which guards were drunk and which ones were aiming for a promotion. It was a rare luxury to be able to allow herself not to know, and Ziyal embraced it wholeheartedly. 

Pity only that this vast, bright, deep, exciting and joyful Universe that she was so willing to learn about and explore, if only through books, was not only full of planets and stars and flowers and rocks, but also full of people. She wanted to forget about people, but they wouldn’t go away. Survival, it turned out, was no longer a matter of keeping alert, reacting in time, and carrying her sharp little knives concealed (although she still did, she always did that). It was all slippery now, not depending on actions, but on words, spoken and unspoken, and looks, and subtle connections. All these people, were they friends, were they enemies? What did they want, who were they, who did they think she was? And then there was Lamar Toral, rolling down the steps, one two three, coming to rest on his living room rug. There was Elim Garak, following her with his darkened eyes, sitting over his needles, waiting - for what? William Riker, telling her stories about frost giants - why? Kira, Bashir. People. Too many people.

Good people, normal people, who slept at night. Ziyal didn’t sleep at night. Ziyal - walked. She loved the empty station, she felt like she belonged there like she hadn’t felt it anywhere else. She crossed the promenade again and again, peered into dark shop windows (and Garak’s was always dark), did occasional double somersaults from the balcony, climbed to the upper pylons and looked out across the stars to the wormhole, wandered the corridors, strolled through cargo and docking bays. Sometimes she followed the cleaning and maintenance crews around, learning many useful things about access panels and shortcuts and how this huge station worked on tiny details and constant repairs and, most of all, the blind faith that it wouldn’t just fall apart at the seams. Other times she looked into ops for an hour or two from a nook she had found, and watched gamma shift go about their business, which was mostly running complicated analysis and systems checks that would block the computers for too long during other shifts, standing around holding their cups of raktajino, complaining about superiors, and waiting for their shift to end. 

They never saw her, never knew she was there. She did this for four, five hours. Then she went back to her quarters, brushed her teeth, brushed her hair, put on a nightgown, climbed into bed, put out the lights, and waited for the alarm. Ziyal liked this little routine. It suited her. She liked knowing that she could find her way around the station in a crisis - if she should need to escape, or to hide. This way, she reasoned, she could be more relaxed and alert during the day, while she was engaging in all those personal relationships that seemed to be inevitable. 

The only problem being that it wasn’t really working. For the first couple of weeks she thought she would be all right (except for the broken mirror, but that had been her first day and she was still nervous, she told herself), but then the nausea had started, and the dizziness, so no more somersaults, and no more looking down from Upper Pylon 1. Then there came the shaking, first the hands, then the rest of the body, uncontrollable, for minutes on end, without a warning. Her feet going numb, then her face, then the rest of her, not being able to hold herself straight from one second to the next. 

At first it happened only at night, when she was alone. She could deal with that. But then there had been that incident with Dr. Bashir at the replimat. She doubled and tripled her sessions with the combat program, but that wasn’t the problem: as long as she was fighting someone, she was focused, efficient, flawless. It was when she was idle that the trouble started, and now the worst had happened: not only had she had a complete breakdown in front of a total stranger, but after that she had fallen asleep against her will. Ziyal had never felt so helpless in her whole life, it was simply not acceptable. 

Tora, yes, Tora knew just what to do. Have I ever lied to you, she whispered, have I ever let you down? Think of it: who were you speaking of when you broke that mirror? And when you were talking to Bashir at the replicate? And whose shop were you walking out of when you fell in the corridor?  
Think how proud your father will be. 

“Why, Miss… Ziyal, this is certainly a surprise. I didn’t think I would see you so soon after… Ziyal? Ziyal, are you all right? Garak to sickbay, I need someone in my shop as soon as possible. No, it’s not me. It’s Tora Ziyal. She seems to have trouble breathing…”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal kicks Bashir in the stomach, then kicks Garak in the shins. Bashir and Ziyal have a talk. Bashir has an idea. It involves Garak.

It has happened again. You’ve let yourself fall asleep again, and you don’t even know where you are. You have to get out of here, now. 

“Shhh, it’s all right, Ziyal. I’m right here. You’re fine, you’re going to be fine…”

Ziyal recognised Julian’s voice, his kind face bending over her. Tora recognised him too, but she didn’t care. Raising herself off the bed with the left elbow, she struck the doctor’s face with her right fist. Not very hard, just to unbalance him; immediately after that, she put her whole weight on the elbow and kicked her right foot into his kidneys, with purpose and the definite intention to hurt. Bashir doubled over with a mixture between a wheeze and cough and fell down at the end of the biobed. Tora calculated he’d be unable to move for at least five to ten seconds. More than enough time to gain a considerable advantage. The Bajoran temple was right across the way, and there was an access panel there she could use to-

Two strong arms grabbed her from behind, immobilising her, before she could reach the exit.

“All things considered, I believe it would be in everyone’s best interests if you remained here for the moment.”

Garak. She tried to free herself, but in spite of being shorter than her, he was lifting her above the ground, so she couldn’t get any leverage. She kicked her heels against his shins, but he didn’t move. 

“I’m going to kill you, Elim Garak. I swear I will”, she spat out. 

“I don’t doubt your intentions, Ziyal”, he answered. “And how are you going to do that, Ziyal? Tell me.” From the corner of her eye, Ziyal could see a groaning Bashir trying to grab the biobed to get to his feet. 

“Let’s talk about that, Ziyal. I’m very interested in hearing how, you, Ziyal, are going to kill me, Elim Garak.”

“Stop saying that!”

Ziyal’s hands went to her ears, all she wanted was to shut out his voice. She realised he wasn’t holding her anymore. Go, go!, Tora screamed. Kick him in the groin, slice his throat open for good measure and then run. Instead, Ziyal crouched under the nearest console and closed her eyes, her hands still pressed to her ears. 

“Stop saying what? What should I stop saying, Ziyal?”

“Stop saying - her name! And you - shut up, shut up, shut up!”

When she opened her eyes, his face was really there, not a vision this time, very close to hers, so close that she couldn’t read his expression. From her position she could easily have grabbed him and shoved his head into the console, but her arms felt so heavy that she didn’t think she could have lifted them five centimetres off the floor. 

“Of course, my dear. We will all - shut up now.”

Don’t call me dear. She wanted to say it, but instead she started crying. There she was again, crouching against some bulkhead and crying, like the completely useless creature that she was. But Elim Garak didn’t take her into his arms like Riker had done. He just sat there and looked at her, until she heard Bashir’s voice saying “help me put her into the bed again, will you?” and she felt hands lifting her, but this time she didn’t struggle. She heard the doctor and Garak exchange a few words, and then there was Bashir’s face floating above her. Again. 

“I’m sorry for kicking you”, Ziyal said. 

“It was a remarkably well placed kick”, he said. “But I think I’ll live. How do you feel?”

Ashamed. Sick. Furious. I feel like I want to be dead. 

“All right”, she lied. 

“Do you think you could rest here for a while?”

“Can I go to my quarters?”

“I’d prefer it if you stayed here for now. I can give you something to help you sleep, if you want.”

“No! No drugs. I promise I’ll be good. I’ll stay here.”

He didn’t look very convinced.

“Good. A couple of hours, ok? And then we’ll talk.”

She didn’t ask about what they would talk. She didn’t say she didn’t want to stay there, and just walk out. She could have, but she didn’t. She just closed her eyes and started to walk around the perimeter of the camp in her mind. Whenever she saw a guard, she killed him. When she came full circle, all the guards where alive again, and she started fresh. Soon, she felt like herself again. She reached out for Tora in her mind, calling her. Tora answered. All was good. 

 

“Let me say it, doctor, please. It’s such a lovely expression.”

“Ziyal…”

“No, really, I want to say it: post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s sonorous, yet elegant, don’t you think? Even graceful. There’s a song in there.”

“It’s a sickness, Ziyal. A very serious one.”

Ziyal and Bashir were sitting in the little lab space just off the diagnostic room with the biobed, where anyone coming into sickbay wouldn’t see them at first. She had dutifully rested for two hours, and then she had allowed him to check her vitals, perform some tests, and take several samples of blood and tissue. Why not, considering this would in all probability be the last time she came into sickbay. He was showing her some readouts on a padd now, and Ziyal pretended to glance at them, although she already knew what was on them. This was a conversation she had been prepared for for some time. 

“Remember how I’ve been telling you you haven’t been eating right? You’ve already developed a serious iron deficiency, you’re electrolyte count is all over the place, and let’s not even talk about your EEG.”

“Oh, but why not? Let’s talk about it, doctor. It’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

Bashir’s face wasn’t kind anymore. There was a hard line around his mouth and his eyes were steely. 

“Do you think this is amusing?”

“Oh no, doctor. Julian. I don’t think it is amusing at all. What I think is that I have unresolved issues of guilt, due to the trauma of losing my mother and then enduring physical and emotional privations during a crucial stage of my psychological evolution. I feel I didn’t really deserve to survive and since the camp didn’t kill me as I expected, I’ve decided that I’ll finish the job. But I don’t deserve a quick death either, which is why I don’t simply vent myself out of an airlock or put a disruptor in mouth. Instead, my unconscious mind creates a host of very disagreeable symptoms that of course have no physical cause and thus cannot be treated by conventional means. In time, when I feel I have suffered enough, these symptoms will either kill me spontaneously or indeed drive me to suicide.”

“Or you will provoke someone into killing you.”

“Or that.” 

“And you’re telling me you don’t really care if any of that happens. Is that it?”

“What do you think, doctor?”

“I think that you do care, yes. And I think that, together, we can beat this. There are treatments. I am not an expert, but I can consult some colleagues, and there’s extensive literature on the subject…”

“Oh yes? How much literature is there exactly on PTSD in Cardassian-Bajoran subjects, do you think?”

“There must be some. You’re not the only Cardassian-Bajoran person in the universe, you know.”

“Oh, now you’re hurting my feelings.”

“And if there isn’t, well, we’ll just have to improvise. We can combine several approaches, and maybe even create something like a standard treatment for-“

“Oh, I get it. I’m going to be your little project, am I? Are you already thinking of the papers you’re going to write, of all the conferences you’ll be invited to, all those thankful and heartfelt letters? ‘Oh doctor, if it hadn’t been for you, you saved my life…’”

“Stop it, Ziyal!” Bashir struck the console in front of him in frustration. Then the took a deep breath. “You understand what’s happening to you, you know that it can and must be treated. That’s the first step, the most important one. So, let’s try to talk about this rationally. If it’s me you object to, I’m sure we could find another doctor, or maybe we could even transfer you to another facility with more resources. Is that what you want.”

“No, that’s not what I want.”

“All right, we’ll do it here then. At least we can start slowly, and see how it goes. The first thing we have to do is draw up a plan. Have you ever tried meditation?”

“Doctor. Listen to me. There is not going to be a plan, and there isn’t going to be a treatment. I do not want to be treated. I thought I’d already told you.”

“I refuse to accept that.”

“That is your problem, not mine.”

Ziyal smiled and got up. 

“Will I see you soon for lunch, doctor? Tuesday at the replimat?”

Bashir got up as well, reaching out to Ziyal as if to hold her back. But he didn’t touch her. 

“If you refuse treatment, you leave me no choice but to speak to the Commander.”

“And what is the Commander supposed to do about it? Order me to receive treatment? I am not in Starfleet, and he has no authority over me. Besides, apart from my connection to Dukat, I don’t really think he would care one way or the other.”

“But I care! It is my duty as a doctor-“

“Yes, it is your duty as a doctor to help and cure whenever you are asked to. Otherwise, it is your duty to respect the wishes of the patient. And as of now, I choose not to be your patient anymore. If I ever was. Have a good day, doctor. Let me know about lunch.”

“I could contact your father. I could tell him. If he knew…”

Outside of sickbay, the station was waking up; they could hear the hum of the still sleepy conversations of the first people lining up at the replimat for coffee, and the louder laughs and relieved exclamations of the night-shift crews having hearty breakfasts before returning to their quarters. From her position near the door, Ziyal could see a monk opening up the Bajoran temple, light the candles and ceremonially sweep the doorstep. She didn’t turn around, and she didn’t raise her voice. 

“If he knew my life was in danger, he’d probably find a way to make me seek treatment. So yes, you could do that. You could contact him. But you won’t.”

“I don’t want to do it, Ziyal, but I’m really running out of options here. You leave me no other choice.”

Ziyal still didn’t turn. Bashir couldn’t see her mouth, but every word reached him with perfect clarity. 

“If you contact my father, *I* will contact my father. I will tell him how you have been - let’s say, bothering me? Poking me. Laying me on a bed and *doing things* to me. And that this *treatment* plan of yours is just an excuse to keep me out of my clothes and in one of your beds. Poor helpless little me. I will be very convincing, and who do you think he will believe? Do you think my father is the kind of man who needs proof when his only daughter, the bastard daughter he gave up everything for, tells him these things? Or do you think that maybe you would just have a terrible accident? Or more probably you would just turn up dead in a very public place, with a little card attached that says “Greetings from Dukat - do not poke my daughter”. You know this, and I know this, so why don’t we both just pretend you never considered contacting my father.”

“I have never *poked* you, and certainly never touched you in any way that - I never even - Ziyal! You wouldn’t do that!”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“No! That’s Tora talking, not you.”

Now she turned, and the look on her face made the doctor take a few steps back, until his back hit the lab shelf. The vials clinked softly. 

“How can you tell, dear doctor? And even if you could - what exactly would be the difference?” 

Bashir bit his lip. 

“You don’t need her anymore, Ziyal. Tora wants you to be sick, don’t you see? But we can make her understand, if you only let me-“

But Ziyal was no longer listening. A sweet smile on her lips and a distant look in her eyes she turned away and walked out, a certain sway in her stride, almost as if she were dancing. She nodded her head to the Bajoran lab technician who was coming into sickbay and then disappeared around the corner. 

“Good morning, doctor. Are you all right? You look a bit pale…”

“What? Yes, fine, fine. I’m fine. Listen, why don’t you go over those cultures we set yesterday and write up the results. I’ll be back shortly. If you need me, I’ll be in Mr. Garak’s shop.”

“Mr. Garak? But - it’s 0600, doctor, do you think it’ll be open?”

“For this, it will definitely be open. I have the feeling it’s the kind of proposal he just can’t resist.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak pricks his finger on a needle. Some boxes in the back room seem to be moving, but they are not.

14.

“She’s dying, you know.”

Garak drew his breath in sharply and threw the needle on the worktable. He’d been sitting there for three hours now, ever since he left sickbay, working on some ceremonial robes for a group of Klingon merchants. It was the easiest possible kind of work, requiring only a minimal level of attention, and he’d managed to prick his finger at least a dozen times. It was unacceptable, but there it was. He sighed and composed his face. Smile, Garak. Smile. It will soon be over. It always is. 

“Aren’t you being a tad melodramatic, doctor?”

“Look at me, Garak. Do I look as if I’m even slightly in the mood for your shit? This is not one of our little lunch talks. We’re talking about a person’s life here, ok?”

Needles, Garak thought. I need another type of needles for this kind of work. Thicker needles. These are too thin, they bend too easily. I need the ones that arrived in the shipment the other day. The ones in the back room.

“How very dramatic. Very well then, since we are being so refreshingly frank, let me tell you that I am not in the mood for any *shit* either, doctor, if you will allow me to use your colourful expression. So I would suggest that you just go ahead and tell me what it is that you want so we can both go about our day with as little *shit* as possible. Would that be at all acceptable?” 

Bashir leaned towards him. Do not shrink away, Elim Garak. Do not dare shrink away. Garak’s right hand closed around the needle he had left on the worktable and slowly, lovingly, his thumb drove it into his index finger. 

“You can help her. You can help me help her.”

For a moment, it looked as if Bashir was going to put his hand on Garak’s shoulders, but Garak looked at it, and the doctor backed away. 

“Quite aside from the obvious question of how I would do that, my dear doctor, there is the even more interesting question of why. You *were* present when Ziyal and I last spoke, were you not? In this very room, only yesterday? In fact, not even twenty-four hours have passed since she was standing precisely were you are standing right now, telling me that, after some consideration, she had decided she was not going to kill me.”

_You know me. You know who my father is._

Garak paused. The doctor continued to look at him with that concentrated, good-person, Starfleet intensity. Breathe, Garak. Breathe. And don’t forget to smile. 

“‘You don’t bother me, I don’t bother you.’ That is what she said, remember? It seemed like a reasonable arrangement then, and it still does now.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? She is going to die.”

“We all must die, doctor.”

“But not like this. No one deserves to die like this.”

_You shouldn’t even be alive, Elim. You’re a mistake. A mistake is eating my food, a mistake is sitting on my chair, a mistake is taking up my space. Mistakes are ugly things, Elim. No one wants to see them, they should’t exist. Go away now. Go somewhere where I can’t see you._

_Yes, father._

_And don’t call me father._

“You, doctor, may very well be qualified to decide who deserves to die and in what manner. I, for my part, am just a humble tailor. I prefer not to get involved.”

“Damn it, Garak!” Bashir slapped Garak’s worktable in frustration and started to pace. As the doctor moved away from him, Garak started to feel his breath come more naturally again. Carefully, he pulled the needle out of his finger and looked at the tiny hole it had left in his skin - it was almost invisible if you didn’t know what you were looking for. As he had expected, there was no blood. He knew all the places and all the ways to achieve just the right amount of pain with minimum amount of trace. 

The doctor turned to face him again. Garak remembered how Ziyal had stopped in front of that very dress, how he had watched the muscles in her back working. 

“I do remember your conversation. I do. I remember how you looked at her. And you know what else I remember? I remember how you talked to her, just now, just a couple of hours ago, in sickbay. You knew exactly what to say to her, and how to say it, and it worked. If you hadn’t been there, she could have killed me without a second thought.”

He remembered her eyes. Every time he had seen her, her eyes were saying “kill me” so plainly that she might as well have been screaming it in his ears. Until he couldn’t take it anymore, he just had to make it go away. That look. 

“She wouldn’t have killed you, doctor. She just wanted you out of the way. You were easy. But-“

“But she might have hurt others.”

“Or herself.”

“Or herself. And you didn’t want that to happen. You stopped her. Because you knew exactly what she was thinking, what she was feeling. Because you’ve been where she’s been. And because you care.”

Garak felt a surge of anger. Damn him, damn the girl, damn this godforsaken station. How did this - person, this so-called doctor, dare to presume on where he had been, what he knew? Who he cared about. And how had he, Elim Garak, whose name had been whispered in terror throughout sectors, ended up in a position where he had no choice but to listen to his drivel? 

“You’ve known me for long enough to know that the only thing I care about is myself, and Cardassia. Not necessarily in that order. I acted instinctively, as anyone else would have. Nothing more.”

“I don’t believe you, and I don’t believe you believe yourself. I was there, Garak.”

“You were crawling on the floor wheezing and trying not to vomit. Not exactly the best position to make detached and professionally accurate observations.”

“Garak-“

“Leave, doctor.”

“But…”

“It would be wise for you to leave. Now.”

Bashir, that fool, was not afraid. How, it what world, in what *Universe* was it possible that someone like Bashir wasn’t afraid of someone like Garak anymore?

_I’ll tell you why, Elim. Because you are nothing. You never were anything else. You, people like you. You don’t matter._

“Fine. Fine, I’ll leave. I’ll leave, and you stay here, in your cosy little shop, with your needles and your scissors, and your - attitude. I thought there was something to you, Garak, you know? Something behind all that, something worthwhile. A real person. A hurt person, maybe. A wise person even, someone I could learn from. But hey, I can make mistakes too. I thought I couldn’t, not really, but I’ve been learning all about that, lately. So maybe everyone else was right about you, and I’ll just have to accept that. That fascinating guy I was having lunch with all this time, he was just a product of my imagination, and all that you really are is a cruel, petty man who is bitter because he once had some power and now he’s lost it. And you know what? I don’t find that interesting at all. I’d rather have lunch with Morn. Now *he’s* interesting.”

After Bashir left, Garak looked at the unfinished work on the table for a long time. People came and went in front of his shop, the station now buzzing with life. Some of them spoke to him, and he answered, customers came in, Odo stopped by to ask him about the Klingon merchants, but Garak’s mind never left his worktable. There was something, something that was missing, something he needed… 

Needles. He needed to get some needles. The good ones.

The back room was little more than a closet, really, containing a small table covered with samples, an even smaller stool, and otherwise stacked so full of boxes and crates that there was scarcely room for one small person. Garak went in and said “lights”, but they didn’t go on, as usual. It was a design flaw, one of many this station was riddled with. It didn’t matter, the light that came in from the shop was enough to read by, and Garak started to scan the top boxes for the one containing the needles he wanted. He didn’t particularly like the back room, but he’d been in it many times without any problems - until today. Today, it suddenly seemed to him as if the boxes were about to fall on him and bury him. He could have sworn they were moving. 

His hands started to sweat, and breathing seemed like a delicious fantasy. He turned to leave and found he could not move, it was impossible to move a single muscle, including his lungs or his heart. Everything stopped. I am going to die here, he thought. After everything, after all these years, this damn closet is finally going to kill me. The closet has finally won. As I knew it would. 

_I’m going to kill you, Elim Garak. I swear I will._

Too late, sweet girl. Too late. He wins. He always wins… 

And then, as he remembered her voice, as he saw her face again, he took one breath, and then another, and then he was walking out of the back room, which was full of boxes that were not going to move because he had stacked them very carefully. He was not going to die today. And neither, he decided, was Ziyal. Not today, and not tomorrow. He asked the computer about the location of Tora Ziyal, and when the computer informed him that she was in her quarters, he smiled to himself. She wanted to be found. There was still time.

Afterwards, Garak resumed his work on the Klingon robes, and finished them in half an hour without pricking his finger once.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal is sick and Garak brings her some soup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Ziyal is reading is "Middlemarch", the copy Sisko gave her.

15\. 

_"Oh, my life is very simple,” said Dorothea, her lips curling with an exquisite smile, which irradiated her melancholy. “I am always at Lowick.”_

_“That is a dreadful imprisonment,” said Will, impetuously._

_“No, I don’t think that,” said Dorothea. “I have no longings.”_

_He did not speak, but she replied to some change in his expression. “I mean, for myself. Except that I should like not to have so much more than my share without doing anything for others. But I have a belief of my own, and it comforts me.”_

_“What is that?” said Will, rather jealous of the belief._

_“That by desiring what is perfectly good, even when we don’t quite know what it is and cannot do what we could, we are part of the divine power against evil - widening the skirts of light and making the struggle with darkness narrower.”_

It was getting darker, and the words were getting so blurred that Ziyal couldn’t make them out any longer. “Lights!”, she called, but nothing changed, she still couldn’t read the next sentence. She looked up and saw that the lights were already on. She remembered now, she had turned them on many hours ago, when she started reading. The room was very bright, much too bright for her, so bright it hurt her eyes. 

It wasn’t the light that was keeping her from reading, it was her hands: they were shaking so much that it was impossible to fix her eyes on the writing. Ziyal put the book in her lap and tried to hold it open with her elbows, but that only brought on another wave of nausea. She didn’t run to the bathroom or even bother to lean over the arm of the sofa, where she had placed a bucket. She knew there was nothing in her stomach, the last speck of bile had been five, six hours ago, since then it had just been dry retching. How was it possible that her stomach still thought there was something to get rid of when she hadn’t eaten anything for the past three days? 

“It won’t be long now.”

Was it Tora, or was it her mother’s voice that she was hearing? It didn’t matter. The nightgown was clinging to her skin and the shaking was so bad now that she could actually hear her teeth chattering, but her body felt lighter and lighter. Ziyal curled up on the sofa and closed her eyes. “Computer, lights out, please”, she said. Wonderful darkness, finally. There would be no one to interrupt her sleep, she had rigged and wired the door to her quarters, she had learned to do that when she was seven. Not that anyone would go to all that trouble anyway, not for her. She could sleep now. 

 

The sound of the chime. The door. How long had she been asleep? Who was it? Why wouldn’t they leave her alone? 

“Go away…” 

She wanted to shout it, but Ziyal could barely hear her own voice. The chime sounded again. Ziyal let her head sink back onto the sofa. Let them ring. It won’t be long now, mother… 

 

“Ziyal. Ziyal! Wake up. Come on, that’s right. You need to wake up now.”

“Leave me alone…”

“Not right now, my dear. Here, sit up. Look at me. Do you know who I am?”

“You… I hate you. There was something… I need to - kill you?”

“All right, I see you do recognise me. Very good.”

Ziyal’s hands felt like lead, her head was spinning, she could barely see. Where was her mother? Wasn’t her mother supposed to be here? A blanket was wrapped around her, and someone sat beside her. 

“Here, drink this.”

Garak offered her a steaming cup full of a hot liquid. The mere smell, green and spicy, revived her, made her more aware of her surroundings. These were her quarters. The sofa, the bookshelves. Her clothes on the floor. The bucket. The book on the table. Dorothea, fighting against the darkness. Ziyal remembered now. She remembered everything. 

Garak was still patiently holding out the cup for her; Ziyal looked at it, then looked at him, and then, with what felt like an enormous effort because her hands were still so heavy, knocked it straight out of his hand. A few drops landed on Garak’s cheek. He wiped them away carefully, then stood up, walked to the replicator, said something that Ziyal didn’t understand which sounded like “pool reek”, and came back with another identical cup. 

“I can do this all day”, he said.

“So can I.”

“I doubt it. If you don’t drink at least a few sips of this, you’ll be unconscious is about half an hour, and then I’ll feed you intravenously. Would you prefer that?”

Ziyal snorted.

“Sure you will.”

Garak said nothing, he just stood there with the second cup of soup still in his hand. Ziyal could feel the strength she had felt for short seconds start to seep out of her again. 

“What are you even doing here? And how did you get in?”

“Ah yes. The door. Your bypass was quite ingenious, I’ll admit that. Unexpected and effective. But still, nothing I hadn’t seen before. It took less than ten seconds.”

“You can’t be here. You’re invading… you’re… I’ll call security.” 

“No you won’t. You will drink this, then you will take a shower, and then you will get into bed and sleep.”

“You - you’re ridiculous. Just leave, go away! I’ll call doctor Bashir.”

“Oh, you can do that if you want. He’ll tell you the same thing.”

The door chime sounded and without even thinking about it, Ziyal said: “Come in!”. Kira ran in, her arms extended, then stopped abruptly when she saw Garak. Her arms fell to her sides. 

“Ziyal! Are you all right? Why weren’t you answering my messages?”

“We are perfectly fine here, major, as you can see. Nothing to worry about,” Garak said calmly.

“And what are *you* doing here?”

Garak sighed. Suddenly, Ziyal found she had to fight to keep her eyes open. Her hands were starting to shake again and she sat on them so Kira wouldn’t see.

“What is going on here? Ziyal? Are you sick?”

Kira walked over to the sofa and put her hand on Ziyal’s forehead. Ziyal wanted to shrink back, she didn’t want to be touched, but she was too weak. 

“She has a fever! She needs medical attention!”

“It is not a high fever, it will subside once she has ingested some fluids and salts and had some proper rest.”

“Oh yes? And who made you a doctor? Kira to Bashir. I need you in Ziyal’s quarters, right away.”

Ziyal was whimpering now, her face in her hands, rocking forward and back. Garak sat beside her again and arranged the blanket over her shoulders. 

“Garak to Bashir. Belay that last request by major Kira, your presence is not required at this time.”

“Garak? What is going on? Is everything all right?”

“The situation is under control, doctor. I am - monitoring young Ziyal, as we discussed.”

“Julian? Will you pleas come here as soon as possible? And bring some security with you? I think Mr. Garak needs to spend a month or two in the brig learning how not to break into other people’s quarters, among other things.”

“Mother? Where’s my mother? Why is everyone shouting?”

Garak held the cup of broth to Ziyal’s mouth and, as unthinkingly as she had invited in Kira, she took a sip, and then another.

“I’m afraid your mother is dead, my dear.”

Ziyal took anotehr sip of the broth and started to cry. 

“Now look what you’ve done! You-“

“Shut up!”

The doctor’s voice rang through Garak’s and Kira’s communicators at the same time, creating a strange, bell-like echo. The both fell silent.

“Garak, when we recently discussed your - possible interest in Ziyal, you didn’t seem all that convinced. Quite the contrary.”

“Yes, doctor, I remember. However, I have reconsidered. You were right: I am uniquely equipped to assist Ziyal in her - predicament, and I am willing to do so.”

“May I ask what made you change your mind?”

“May I ask what the hell is happening here?”

“Not now, major. Garak?”

“You may, doctor. But you must know by now that asking me a question is not always the best way to get an answer.”

“I see. But - you’re sure of this? You’re committed? You can’t do this half way, you know.”

“I know. I give you my word doctor. To many, that would not mean much, but I believe it will mean something to you.”

“It does. Thank you, Garak. Will you come to see me as soon as possible? There are certain details we need to talk about.”

“Of course, doctor.”

“And Kira, could you come to see me right now?”

“What? What are you talking about? What the fuck is this? Do you know what state Ziyal is in? I haven’t seen her in three days, I was ready to break into her quarters, and now I find her shaking, with a fever, Garak sitting here being cryptic and feeding her plomeek soup, and not only are you not coming here to tend to your patient, but you want me to leave?”

“For the moment, yes.”

“You are insane! You are both insane! You’re putting this girl’s life at risk, and I’m not going to stand here and let you-“

“Kira. Listen to me. Are you listening?”

“No, I…”

“Kira, if you don’t listen to me, I *will* send security, and I will have *you* removed from Ziyal’s quarters. Do you understand?”

“But…”

“Kira. I know you love Ziyal and want what’s best for her. So do I, and so does Garak, and I don’t care what you think or believe of him. All you need to know is that as Ziyal’s doctor, and as her friend, I am doing what’s best for her. I am fully aware of her situation, and so is Garak, much more than you are now. I will do my best to explain, but right now you need to leave her. She needs to remain as calm as possible.”

“With Garak.”

“Yes, with Garak.” 

Ziyal had finished the soup and was waiting for her stomach to revolt. Until that happened, and since she really didn’t want to look at any of the people currently in the room, she had picked up Sisko’s book and started to read. She didn’t understand the meaning of the sentences, but the mere putting together of words in her mind soothed her and drowned out the other voices. Only from far away did she hear Kira saying: 

“It better be a damn good explanation, Julian. I’m on my way.”

Ziyal didn’t lift her from the book head to watch Kira leaving. Afterwards, they sat for a while in silence, Ziyal reading and Garak just looking at her. Finally, he asked: “Is it good?”

“I don’t really know. There are a lot of people.”

“Tell me about them.”

“There’s this girl - or woman, she marries a man because… I can’t remember exactly now, but he’s not good, he’s… something. Old. He’s old. And then there’s this other man…”

“Who is not old, I take it.”

“No. He’s a doctor. And he married someone too. And then there was something about horses, I think…”

“It sounds fascinating. Would you like to talk some more about it?”

“I - I think I’d like to go to bed now.”

“Very well.”

Garak stood up to help her stand, and only then did Ziyal realise that she had been holding on to Garak’s hand all that time. She waited for Tora’s voice to mock her for holding on to a man’s hand like a little child, or like a whore, like her mother had held on to her father’s hand so many times, begging him not to leave - but Tora was silent. Ziyal let Garak lead her into the bedroom. 

“Will you stay here?”

“Yes.”

It was enough to know that she would not be alone. She would think about the rest tomorrow.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kira questions Bashir's methods, and remembers one night out camping with Dukat.

16.

_“Nerys… my Nerys… Come closer now… Yes… Like that…”_

She didn’t want to remember. She had resisted for so long. But what was there to do, where could she turn? Julian’s friendly face was closed now, her eyes were slipping off it like water dripping off a stone. Ziyal was safe behind her door, hidden from her. And there was no way she could look Odo in the eye while feeling like this. He would see it: the dirt, the guilt, the shame, and then she wouldn’t be able to live any longer. It was as simple as that. 

There was only one thing to do. Face it, on her own. Give in to it. Live it again. Just this last time, and then forget about it forever. 

 

Not that she had suspected the day would end like this… Kira had stormed into sickbay in a fury, knocking over chairs, hissing at bewildered lab assistants. She was angry at herself for even coming here. Why hadn’t she just thrown Garak out of Ziyal’s quarters and stayed there? Julian wasn’t going to send security, that was just a bluff. Ziyal didn’t want Garak, she wanted her. After all, wasn’t she the reason that Ziyal was alive? Weren’t they bound by a tie that no one but the two of them could understand: not Julian, certainly not Garak, and no, not even Dukat? What they had was theirs only. 

She should have paid more attention, Kira realised that now. But there was still time. All that Ziyal needed was to know that someone cared for her, and who cared for her more than Kira, who could?

Julian greeted her with a smile that he had obviously been rehearsing the whole time it took her to get from the habitat ring to sickbay. A sedating smile. It made Kira want to crush in his nose with her fist. He held out his arm to her, palm outward, and she decided she would first twist his arm out of its socket and *then* smash in his nose.

“She’s sick, Kira.”

Kira could see her now: sitting on the edge of the sofa, hunched forward, clinging to her blanket with one hand and with the other - to Garak’s hand. She wanted to summon the fury she had felt moments ago, but there was only a leaden tiredness seeping into her bones. 

“I can see that, I am not stupid.”

“It’s not a physical sickness. I can’t give her a medicine, I can’t operate her.” 

“That’s because it’s psychological. Or psychosomatic. Oh what, now you look surprised? Yes, Kira knows big words.”

“No, it’s not that, I was just… Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that so many people know about this illness, especially in this sector. These haven’t been peaceful times. Don’t you want to sit down, major? You don’t look so good.” 

Kira sat in the chair Julian was motioning to, trying not to fall into it to heavily. 

“Of course I know the illness, I’ve seen it many times in the resistance, even before the occupation ended. People who - just lost themselves. Let themselves go, didn’t eat, didn’t sleep. Some just put a phaser in their mouth - I never saw it, but I heard about it. Once knew a man who ran 50 miles every day. To make the voices stop, he said.”

What was his name, the running man’s name? Tomen? Tokat? Toral? A handsome guy, she used to have a little crush on him. He liked rocks, he always carried his collection with him and then had to ask other people for food and water because the rocks took up all the room in his backpack. What had become of him? What had become of them all? All those people, men and women who were more than brothers, more than sisters, sharing fires and beds and meals, hopes and dreams and stories. Now she doubted she would even recognise the rock guy if she saw him.

Bashir leaned on the console beside her. He was making his earnest doctor face, the one no one she knew could resist. Except for, until recently, Garak. 

“Ziyal is at a very delicate point, Kira. I’ve been observing her for some time, and things have gotten steadily worse. She’s had several breakdowns, but she has consistently refused treatment. She is not officially my patient, I can’t force her to anything, and I’m afraid that if I push her too far, we might lose her forever. She has even threatened me with Dukat.”

“Dukat? How has she threatened you with him? No one even know where his is.”

“She said she could make him believe that I had abused her, and after that I would just turn up dead one fine morning.” 

“That’s… Ziyal would never do anything like that.”

“Oh yes, she would. She did, believe me. And I don’t think she would feel very much remorse if Dukat had me killed, either. Not now. Right now, she would do almost anything to achieve her goal.”

“Which is…”

“Which is to die, of course.”

“So we don’t let her die! Those people in the resistance, the ones who shot themselves, the ones who let go, it’s because they didn’t have anyone who cared enough for them. No one had the time, or the energy… it was… Anyway, it doesn’t have to be like that for Ziya. She has us. We can help her.”

“No, we can’t. Maybe later on, but not right now.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s no connection.”

Kira stood up. She was still tired, very tired, but she was not going to listen to this while sitting down. 

“So what you’re saying is: she has no connection to us, her friends, who have known her and cared for her all this time - she has no connection to *me*, who got her out of the hellhole she was living in in the first place - but she has a connection to Garak, who she hasn’t even talked to until what, two days ago? Is that what you’re saying?

Julian took a deep breath and opened his mouth, as if he was about to launch into a long and detailed explanation. But then he closed his mouth again, and after another couple of seconds he just said: 

“Yes.”

It was getting harder and harder for Kira to keep her eyes open. Come on, come on. Focus. You’re angry. You’re furious. You need to fight this because… because… 

“If he puts his filthy hands on her, I will kill him. And I will know if he does. I will know.”

“I don’t think Garak is interested in Ziyal in that way.”

“Garak isn’t interested in Ziyal in any way, except as in someone he might use. That’s what Garak does, Julian. He uses people. You know that, and I know that. 

Julian sighed and sat down on the chair I had stood up from, and he was not afraid to let himself fall. 

“I know. I know that, Nerys. But right now I don’t see another way.”

He had never called her by her first name. On the station, only Ziyal called her Nerys, and precious few people off the station. Precious few people had ever dared. But it was just as well. It didn’t feel wrong. It didn’t feel like anything. 

“Why him?”

She asked because she somehow felt it was her duty. Hadn’t she come here for that? But Kira found that the answer to that question did not particularly interest her right now. Maybe it was because she had known the answer all along. 

“Because he’s been where she is, and he survived. He knows what to do. I don’t. Not really. None of us do. Not even you.”

Julian looked at her, and that was when his face shut down. No more kindness, no more openness, no more “I’m a doctor, let me help”. No more explanations, and no more patience either. With that one look he gave her, Julian Bashir had turned from a doctor to a soldier, and the soldier in Kira responded in kind: in spite of her strange weariness she squared her slender shoulders and stood up straight. She almost had to keep herself from clacking her heels together and saluting. 

“If any harm comes to her, it will be on you.”

That was unfair and untrue, and they both knew it. Even so, there didn’t seem to be any more to say, so Kira left. As she was walking away, feeling as if she was dragging a load of rocks tied to each of her boots, she still hoped he would call her back. She would take his scolding, she would take his sympathy, even his pity, she would bear anything rather than return alone to her quarters. She knew what was waiting there for her. 

 

_“Do you like it like this? Can you feel this? I can feel it. Oh, I can feel it.”_

She could hear it all the way to her quarters. It was his voice, and now that she wasn’t fighting it it sounded so sweet, so close, taking everything with it, the tiredness, the anger, the hate. The way it had sounded that night. 

 

They had stopped and made a fire, they couldn’t walk in an unknown desert by night. In the morning they would reach the camp and, hopefully, find Dukat’s daughter alive and get her out of there. Kira knew about Cardassian law and custom, she knew he was planning to kill the girl, but she was confident she could stop him when the moment came. Maybe she should have asked herself why she was so sure, but she didn’t. She was excited, almost giddy: out of the station, on an adventure, on a mission, doing something useful, something good. They both laughed when Dukat sat on a sharp rock and almost tore his ass open, they shared war stories and, as the fire waned, she found herself talking to Dukat about things she hadn’t talked about in a long time: loneliness, hate, despair. He listened, and then he spoke too. They talked long after they couldn’t see each other’s faces, and that is why she would always remember his voice. 

Was she surprised when he came to her that night? Of course not. It was, in fact, the only thing she was proud of: that she didn’t pretend to fight him off. Instead, she drew him to her, putting him right where she wanted him. She gave herself to him with joy and with trust and nothing, nothing could have convinced her that night that she wasn’t meant to do just that. 

The problem wasn’t that night. The problem was the next morning, and finding she still wanted him. And the one after that, and the one after that, and every day and every night that followed. Until she had to forbid herself to ever picture his face or remember his voice. Which had worked out quite all right until Ziyal came to the station. Then it had gotten harder. Much harder. 

 

_“It could be like this forever, Nerys. We don’t need them, we don’t need anyone.”_

No, I don’t need *you*. I don’t need anybody. Nerys thought it as the doors to her quarters slid shut behind her, and even when her hand slid between her legs, she still believed it.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dukat has a destiny. Meanwhile, his days are mostly dissatisfying.

17.

He didn’t have to conjure her up, or wait for her to come to him in a dream: since that night in the camp, the night before they found his precious Ziyal, she had been with him every day. He remembered each and every one of her words, her touches, her looks. How she had laughed at him, how she had glared at him with hate. Her hand on his arm, so light and yet inescapable, as he stood before his daughter. “Don’t”, she had mouthed, or maybe he had just heard her in his mind. Whenever he close his eyes, there she was. 

_“It could be like this forever, Nerys. We don’t need them, we don’t need anyone.”_

One day… one day. 

 

When his eyes were not closed, Dukat’s days were filled with space-charts, sensor readings, endless re-calibrations of the cloaking device and drills, drills, drills. Now and then they were lucky enough to run into a Klingon scout ship whose sensors were old enough to be fooled by their configuration and the Klingon chatter his ship was constantly broadcasting over subspace. Hitting a Klingon ship was the best part of any day; seeing it blow up brought tears of joy and pride to his eyes. 

But those encounters and the ecstasy of destruction they brought were rare, and between them stretched the endless days of black space and dull red rage. It followed him, that rage. It was in the books he read, turning the characters into twisted, tortured mockeries of the perfect heroes and shining examples they were supposed to be. It seeped into the Kanar he drank, and made what used to be a keen pleasure and release heavy thoughts into a bitter poison that clogged up his veins, blinded his eyes. It followed him into his dreams, where strange creatures lurked. It made his mouth taste foul when he talked to Damar, again and again, about their eventual raise to glory and power. 

The rage was his bread, his air, it possessed his mind and heart and tainted even his thoughts of Ziyal, dwelling amongst her inferiors, calling them friends, learning their customs, their songs, their stories. Becoming one of them and drifting farther and farther away from him, from what it meant to be a true Cardassian, oh, he could feel it. With every letter he got, every message, he could see it. She wrote with wonder about everything she was learning, all the different races and species in the Universe, all that wonderful diversity, and he wanted to answer that diversity was all very well but that Cardassians were the true superior race, destined to teach all those other races what it meant to be pure and dutiful. And destined, above all, to teach them the real meaning of strength. 

He never did, of course. He was sure that Nerys was intercepting both their letters, and it wasn’t the right time for her to find out about some of his thoughts. Ah, Nerys. One day, they would be as close as to form just one being, one soul, and neither of their thoughts would matter, only their bodies and the beating of their hearts. Dukat was as sure of that as he was that he would rule over Cardassia, and Cardassia would rule over many many other planets. 

There would be a reckoning. Oh yes. A terrible reckoning, hardest on those he loved most, as it had to be. They needed to be cleansed, purified. They needed to *believe*, and believe they would. Nerys and Ziyal, they would be there, by his side, sharing in his magnificent destiny, rejoicing with him and for him, offering him their admiration and allegiance. He had seen it many times. It was the truth. And this red rage, these grey days, this stinking ship were just a small part of the path that was leading him there.

One day… One day.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal and Garak listen to some music.

18.

The music stopped. The silence after it was welcome and oddly painful at the same time. Ziyal liked silence, it had always been a friend to her. Silence meant no threat, no interference, no - people, because people always made sounds, even when they thought they weren’t. 

But then she had never listened to much music before. The silence after music was different. It was *there* in a way silence wasn’t supposed to be, lingering, vibrating. This silence almost seemed alive.

“How can something so beautiful make one feel so sad?”

 

Only after saying it she realised, horrified, that she had said it out loud. Worse, she had said it in the company of the one person who should not be in the room when you said something like that. The one person who (instead of politely ignoring what had been said, which was what any decent person would do) would take that feeling she had expressed so unguardedly, and tear it to neat little shreds of reason and banality and condescension. 

Before Garak had even said anything, before he even looked her way, anger began to form a knot in Ziyal’s stomach. Suddenly she found she was having trouble breathing, which was doubly frustrating because it hadn’t happened in a couple of weeks now, and she knew she would not be able to hold back tears. There they were, stupid stupid tears, rolling down her cheeks, exposing her.

_Weak, pathetic. Limited. Sobbing because you heard some violins and some shrill-voiced humans singing. Is this what you are now? Is this who you want to be?_

Tora was right. (Tora is always right.) How had she allowed this to happen? She, who had killed men without a second thought because they had *looked* at her food in a way she didn’t like. She, Tora Ziyal, the daughter of Dukat, whose name had been feared and spoken only in whispers for entire sectors. How was she now being led around by the hand by a tailor, being dictated to by him? Today we are going to exercise, he said, and so she did. No, not that program, this one is better for you, he said, so she changed her exercise program. Don’t eat a salad today, you need some meat; here, have this stew, he said, and she ate the stew. 

They didn’t spend the whole day together, he still had to attend to his shop (because he was nothing more than a *tailor*, wasn’t he?). But since that night they had been seeing each other every day. He just seemed to *be there* all the time. She would be walking down a corridor and there he’d be, walking beside her; he sat with her when she was having a meal at the replimat, he waved at her whenever she passed in front of his shop, and every night he came to her quarters. Asked how her day had been, what she had done, what she had eaten. He listened when she talked about the books she read, smiling his little smile, shaking his head whenever she said something that he considered incorrect, superficial or irrelevant, which was most of the time. 

How had this happened? It was bad enough that he had seen her - like *that*. In a sweat-soaked nightgown, talking nonsense, huddling naked in the shower, whimpering herself to sleep while clutching at his hand. Did that give him the right to take over her life like this? Did that mean she belonged to him now.

_You belong to no one._

No. No more of this. It didn’t matter how it started, it didn’t matter that she had taken his advice, his help, if that’s what it was, that she had been passively grateful for it. It was enough now and she would end it. These are my quarters and he will leave if I tell him to, she thought. I will say thank you, but I don’t want to see you anymore, I will say that my father… my father… 

 

“Real beauty always will make you feel sad.”

“Garak, I - what?”

His voice was low, but clear. There was something missing from it, but Ziyal couldn’t put her finger on it. 

“That is what beauty does, what it creates - sadness.”

“I - I always thought beauty was supposed to create joy.”

Her own voice sounded small, like a child’s. Just a few seconds ago, that would have infuriated her even more. That was how he made her feel: small, helpless, unfathomably ignorant. That was why she wanted him gone. 

But not this time. The room felt bigger suddenly, and although neither of them had moved, his face seemed very close. 

“Joy doesn’t exist, Ziyal. It is nothing but a fantasy. A very pleasant, possibly necessary, but ultimately harmful fantasy.”

Ziyal nodded. There was nothing to say to that. She knew it was true. At least for them, here, now. And probably for everyone else, too. The others just didn’t know it yet. 

“Now pain, on the other hand, pain does exist. So does truth, mutilated and stunted as it is. And when pain and truth come together, they create beauty. And that’s why it makes us sad.”

“What if it’s the other way round? What if, when truth and beauty come together, they create pain.”

He did look at her then, that strange dark shade that she had seen before covering his pale blue eyes. There wasn’t a shadow falling on him, though. Those eyes made their own shadows. 

Ziyal’s mind started to run through words, sentences - something, anything to distract him just for a moment. She needed to say something stupid, something banal. She needed to bring back the Garak that had pestered her for the past few weeks with long-winded and extremely annoying speeches about nutritional habits and Cardassian history. The Garak that never meant anything he said, with his slightly strident voice and his cynical smile - the Garak she knew, the Garak she knew how to deal with. The Garak that made her feel safe. Not that man that made her feel like she was sinking into quicksand just by looking at her. Him, she didn’t know. And she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to. 

_If you let him kiss you, I will kill you. I will kill you both._

He didn’t kiss her. But he did touch her, his hand on her cheek. It was light, and warm, and quite small. Fine fingered, the perfect hands for a tailor. 

“Are you…?”

“Yes?”

She hadn’t even said anything, and yet it was gone. All of it. Garak’s eyes were just Garak’s eyes again, inquisitive, mocking. The room that had seemed to engulf them for a moment was just Ziyal’s quarters, too big for her meagre possessions. They were sitting on the floor near the wooden bookcase, they were neither too far apart nor too close. And his hand was not on her face anymore. Maybe it had never been there. 

“Well, this has gotten very profound very fast, it seems.”

He got up and pretended to brush some dust of his pants. There was no dust anywhere in Ziyal’s quarters. She cleaned every room three times a day. 

“It’s past your bed-time, Ziyal.”

She hadn’t gotten up from the floor and he was looking down to her. 

“My bed-time, Garak, is whenever I go to bed.”

There was no bitterness in her answer, she was smiling. The anger and confusion she had felt were gone, although Ziyal suspected that they would return. This was the game they played (if a game was what it was). Why they played it, for how long, it didn’t matter. That other thing that had happened, the hand than may or may not have touched her cheek, the words that were said, the heaviness on her chest - that was dangerous. She knew it, and he knew it too. He must. But then, why-?

“Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

He always asked that. Are you free. 

“I think I might be, yes.”

“In that case, I’ll meet you at the replimat - thirteen hundred?”

“Of course.”

He nodded and turned to leave. Before he the door closed behind him, Ziyal said: “Thank you for the music, Elim.”

He stopped, and although she knew she shouldn’t, she continued: “You didn’t even tell me what it was. Does it have a name?”

“It’s called “Stabat Mater” and it was composed by a human about 500 years ago, I believe.”

“Stabat Mater. What does it mean?”

“It’s an extinct language humans don’t use anymore, latin. Stabat mater means ‘there stood the mother’”.

Whose mother? Where did she stand? Was it the mother who was sad, or was it someone mourning their mother? Did the words tell a story? Who had written them? Who had written the music? 

“Why did we listen to this today?”

Again, out of all the possible questions, she had asked the one she should not have asked aloud. The only question that mattered. 

He hesitated. Something else she had never seen him do before. 

“I don’t know.”

And right before the door closed behind him, she heard I’m say: 

“But I’m glad we did.”

_You’re just imagining things. You’ve been reading too many of your useless novels. You’re nothing but a fool._

But Ziyal just smiled. You’re wrong, Tora. This time you’re wrong.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal learns to sew.

19.

“No, I don’t want to. I’ll break something.”

“This a piece of linen, homespun Bajoran linen to be precise, known for it’s resilience, and a Tellarite stainless steel needle. It would be impossible for you to break any of these things, no matter how hard you try.”

“Have you noticed that you have this strange obsession with the planets things come from? It’s kind of creepy. And you know what I mean: I’ll make a mess of it. I can’t sew and I don’t want to do it.”

“What does ‘creepy’ mean?”

“Strange, in an ominous and uncomfortable way.”

“Ah. I like it very much indeed. But, come to think of it, I don’t see why telling you where a piece of cloth or a needle come from, or a fork or a table, would strike you as ominous. Origins are as important for things as they are for people. It’s part of what they are, and consequently, of what they do. A Tellarite needle is not the same as an Andorian needle, a Cardassian or a Terran one; each one will sew differently and you have to know which one to use if you don’t want to, as you put it, make a mess of it. And you won’t know if you can sew or not until you try it, won’t you. You are not getting out of this so easily, young lady.”

Ziyal sighed, pretending to be annoyed by Garak’s speech and trying not to look at his face because she knew that if she did, she would smile. And it was very important that she shouldn’t smile. She didn’t know why, but it was. 

“It’s not about doing it right or wrong, Ziyal. It’s not even about sewing. It’s about learning how to occupy your hands and your mind with something outside of yourself. Concentration, attention to detail. Finishing a task to satisfaction even if you have no talent for it, even if it brings you no joy. And then doing it until you find the joy in it.”

 

While he was speaking, more to himself than to Ziyal now, he touched each of the items he had carefully spread out before them on the work-table: needles, thick and thin, long and short, gleaming and sharp; three pairs of scissors; a large swath of light blue fabric, silky to the touch; something that looked curiously like a Klingon bloodwine cup for some tiny tiny creature; a heap of very fine translucent paper and a piece of pale rose - what, soap? It looked like soap, but Ziyal was pretty sure it wasn’t. And finally, a long row of spools of thread in many different colours and hues: reds, blues, greens, browns; fiery orange, delicate lavender, burgundy, ocher, even gold and silver - too many, it seemed to her, for a first lesson in which she would barely manage a few stitches, probably into her hand, if she managed anything at all. 

Her first thought was that Garak had laid it all out like that because he knew she would like to look at it. But she thought, no, he’s just a meticulous man. He was just being thorough. It was in his nature. Nothing more to it. Why would there be anything else? Why would he waste any thought on how to please her?

The last time Ziyal had seen so many colours and sparkly instruments, the possible use of which was a complete mystery to her, had been in sickbay. She remembered the last time she had been in sickbay: it was like a dream, but she remembered every word. That’s Tora talking, not you, the doctor had said. And then he had said: you don’t need her anymore. If someone had told her then that soon she would be sitting in Garak’s shop, learning about the crucial difference between Tellarite and Andorian needles, she wouldn’t have believed them. Then again, if someone had told her then that she’d be alive the next day she wouldn’t have believed them either. 

 

“I thought joy was an unnecessary and harmful fantasy.”

“A necessary fantasy. That’s what I said. Necessary and harmful. And besides, there is a difference between the kind of joy that comes from completing a task like making a dress, and the - the other one. The one we were talking about.”

There it was again. That one evening where nothing at all had happened. Just two people listening to some music. And yet, hadn’t they looked at each other differently since then? Why did this hush come over their conversation whenever they talked about it? And why *did* their conversation come back to it again and again? 

“All right. So, where do I start?”

Best to get back to something real and practical, even if it did mean she had to actually sew something. Did Garak seem relieved as well, or was she imagining things again? 

“First we have to take some measurements and draw a pattern. Something simple to start with.”

“Yes, please, something *very* simple. Maybe a sheet?”

They both grinned now, and Ziyal thought, maybe this is not going to be horrible and humiliating after all. Maybe it will be - fun?

“I am sure you would look ravishing even in a sheet, but I’m confident that together we can manage something a little more challenging. A simple dress, maybe, with a nice bateau neckline, full skirt and maybe-“

“That one.”

Garak had already been drawing on one of the fine sheets of paper, using the rose coloured chalk that Ziyal had first mistaken for soap. He looked up. 

“You were saying, my dear?”

Ziyal pointed. It was the Bolian embroidery she had seen him working on the first time she had come to the shop, now completed and prominently displayed. A long flowing dress, with the shoulders left completely free, only held together by a black sheath underneath the breast. Even on a mannequin of neutral shape one could almost see it shifting and shining.

“I want to make a dress like that.”

Garak looked at the dress, then at Ziyal, then at the dress again. He was about to say something when they heard Dr. Bashir’s voice: 

“Oh, I see you have a new assistant, Mr. Garak?”

 

Bashir, Major Kira and Constable Odo were standing in the entrance of the shop - well, Bashir and Odo were standing there. Kira had already reached the worktable in three big steps and was inspecting the display of tools and materials. Ziyal’s stomach felt as if someone had made her swallow a fistful of sand. She didn’t notice how her right hand went to her left wrist, where it felt for the small knife always concealed there under the sleeve of her dress. 

“Doctor, Constable - Major. What an unexpected and pleasant surprise. Come in, come in.”

Garak had put on his professional smile and, as the doctor and Odo came closer, Ziyal noticed the same smile on Julian’s face. Maybe I should start working on one of those for myself, she thought.

“Is he paying you for this?”

Kira was picking up objects from the table, turning them around and putting them down again randomly; Garak’s careful arrangement was completely unrecognisable in less than ten seconds. Ziyal considered slitting open Kira’s wrists, but decided against it because the blood would ruin the fabric. 

“I’m not working here. Garak just wanted to - show me something.”

Julian and Odo had arrived at the table now. Odo’s face was completely neutral, which Ziyal guessed was as close to a professional smile as he could manage. She hadn’t seen much of him in the time she’d been on the station. She knew he was a good friend of Kira’s, but he didn’t like to meet new people… or maybe it was Kira who wanted to keep him to herself? Now Ziyal was thinking she would like to talk to him sometime. He didn’t look like someone who might do or say anything unexpected. He looked like a person who was - careful. 

Julian picked up the thing that looked like a tiny cup from where Kira had carelessly tossed it aside and inspected it with a smile that wasn’t professional anymore. 

“A relatively simple activity that nevertheless requires the acquisition of new skills, attention to detail, concentration, and learning how to use and name a whole array of new tools, while also allowing for some creativity - yes, this is an excellent idea, Mr. Garak. Really excellent. I’m impressed. May I ask - what, exactly, is this?”

“Why thank you, doctor. Impressing you is, as you know, one of the ultimate goals of my existence. And that, my dear friend, is a thimble, and it is the reason my hands still have some life left in them.”

He took the thimble from Julian’s hand, quickly threaded some red silk through a needle and demonstrated how to use it with a a few loose stitches - on paper, not the fabric. Ziyal followed each of his movements with desperate attention, the same attention with which she had observed her father when she was a child and never knew if the next time he left would be the time he disappeared forever. 

“Why is it that lately I never understand a single word whenever you two are talking?”

Although she was speaking to Garak and Julian, it was Ziyal Kira was looking at. More than looking at - studying. Time to try out that professional smile, Ziyal thought. Surprisingly, the smile did appear to have a slightly relaxing effect on the major. Bashir, on the other hand, tensed visibly. Ziyal started to calculate how many hours of Garak’s educational speeches she would have to endure if she just ran out of the shop. Without a word. Right now. It would be worth it. 

“You do understand what we are talking about, major. I just suspect you don’t like it very much.”

“Maybe it’s not the what so much as the who. At least one of them.”

Kira was glaring at Garak now, who had been placidly silent during the exchange. If you are expecting to glare Elim Garak down, major, you are going to be glaring for a long time. Ziyal repressed a chuckle, and then tried to remember when was the last time she had felt the impulse to chuckle. Maybe she shouldn’t run away after all. Maybe this *was* going to be fun. 

 

And then Bashir exploded. As much as it was in his nature to explode, anyway. Ziyal had a feeling there was something calculated about it, but still, it was - refreshing. Very refreshing. 

“For heaven’s sake, Nerys, she’s learning to sew! Sew. You know, make dresses, shirts, pants… You do know these things don’t always come out of the replicator, right? She’s working with her hands, which is a very good thing to do for someone in her situation. And I’m congratulating Mr. Garak here on finding the perfect approach for Ziyal’s treatment. And you, *major*, know all this because we have talked about it, at length, and you are choosing to be deliberately obtuse, insensitive and very annoying. It’s getting tiresome.” 

Right. Maybe not so much fun. Ziyal did enjoy Kira’s shocked expression. Her ears actually turned red, that part *was* fun. But she didn’t like how Julian talked about her as if she wasn’t there. She didn’t like how he felt the need to *congratulate* Garak. And she didn’t like how he talked about her treatment. 

Of course she had known all this time that she *was* on some kind of treatment program, and that Garak and the doctor were somehow in on it together, *managing* her, her problems, her illness, whatever it was, but she had felt quite happy ignoring it. Just two stranded Cardassians getting to know each other, a man of experience helping along a young girl who was going through a rough time - it was a nice little fantasy, why destroy it? 

Well, there it was, out in the open. She was being treated. Julian and Kira were shouting at each other now, you are irresponsible, no *you* are irresponsible, I’m going to the Commander with this, only if I don’t go first. It was obvious that this was an ongoing discussion for them. Odo tried to get a word in, murmuring something about how they were all supposed to go have lunch together, and shouldn’t they maybe… but no one was listening to him. Finally he stationed himself one step behind Kira, looking as if all he wanted to do was put her over his shoulder and just carry her out of there. 

Ziyal looked at Garak. He looked back at her and instantly the voices faded and it was as if they were on their own, somewhere far away. Back in her room, after the music. He smiled and raised an eyebrow, as if to say, what do we have to do with these people. And Ziyal knew that, from now on, no matter what happened, they would have this: a room just for the two of them, whenever they wanted it. 

 

“Ziyal? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, what? I’m sorry, Nerys, what did you say?”

“I said I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come here and shout at you. I just…”

“It’s not me you were shouting at.”

“Yes, well. But it’s you I came to see. Or - we came to see you. To see if you want to come have lunch in one of the holosuites.”

“Lunch in a holosuite?”

“It’s supposed to be a - picnic.”

That was Odo, and the way he growled out ‘picnic’ made Ziyal want to laugh out loud.

“Well, that’s sweet of you, Nerys, and I’d love to go on a picnic with all of you.” Ziyal said this looking at Odo, who suddenly looked very confused. “But right now I’d really like to stay here and finish my sewing lesson.”

“All right.”

Kira was forcing herself to keep smiling, and not doing a very good job of it. 

“How about dinner tonight? It’s tuesday, isn’t? We always have dinner on tuesdays!”

And so they all left, and Garak took up the chalk again and put it in Ziyal’s hand. 

“Draw up a dress for me, Ziyal.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Odo needs to make a decision about an event in the Ziyal's recent past.

20.

Odo looked down at his PADD again. And why not? It happened sometimes: messages were changed, or amended in the next message, or even deleted altogether, and you were left wondering if you had ever really seen them. We’re sorry, there was a mistake; the message was not meant for you; the person we’re talking about isn’t the person you know. Nothing bad happened. You may go on with you day now.

Admittedly, it didn’t happen very often. And it certainly didn’t look as if it was going to happen now: the message had been there for over 24 hours now, and every time he looked at it it had not only *not* disappeared, but it seemed to have spawned another devilishly involved sub-clause. 

_“… for the purpose of which, namely to ascertain a viable timeline of facts and events for the investigation in hand, your assistance is requested and you are hereby authorised and required to conduct an interview with the person or persons mentioned above. In this particular case, and after careful consideration by the competent authorities, it is advised to conduct an informal interview and to indicate to the person or persons involved that legal counsel is not necessary.”_

“ _If, nevertheless, in the course of this interview (which may be conducted during one or more days at the discretion of the officer or representative in charge), suspicions should arise about the direct implication of the person or persons mentioned above in the crime that took place on the established date, on the University campus on the outskirts of Jalanda city on Bajor (see attached documents), you have authorisation and are requested and required to take the person or persons into preventive custody and arrange for their immediate transport to Bajor, where you will deliver the person or persons into the hands of the competent authorities.”_

 _“Independently of its outcome and the conclusions of the officer or representative in charge, a full and detailed report of this interview is requested and required, to be delivered no more than 48 hours after the completion of the interview. Please see attached documents A-357-3b and A-458-ac for specifications about the final report. Note that…_ ”

 

There was no doubt about it: he was going to have to call on the girl, there would have to be an interrogation (no matter how many times they called it *interview*, at the end of the day it was nothing more than a good old-fashioned interrogation), and there would have to be a report. An accurate report.

Which normally wouldn’t be any more than a minor inconvenience, more so for the girl than for him. Interrogating people was, after all, part of his job, and one he actually enjoyed. He liked to see them squirm; the look on their faces when they realised that he *knew*; the quivering in their voices right before they confessed; the certainty that they *were* going to confess, even when they still thought they would get away with denying everything. He liked to expose people who had done wrong, make them feel miserable about it, and apply the law accordingly, whether it be petty theft, public intoxication, murder or embezzlement. To bring a semblance of order, if even for a moment, to a chaotic and otherwise highly unsatisfying Universe. 

Yes, he liked interrogations. And most days, Odo did not even entertain the thought that is was possible for a person to be guilty of a crime and yet not deserve the corresponding punishment. He scoffed at the notion of “attenuating circumstances”. Odo didn’t believe in circumstances, he believed in facts. Circumstances were for solids. Wishy-washy. He was a representative of the law. 

Most days. And then there were days like these.

 

He had watched the girl. The daughter of Gul Dukat and some Bajoran woman of pleasure. Rescued under obscure circumstances with Major Kira’s help from a Breen labor camp on an obscure planet. Nothing known about about how the girl had gotten there, how and why Dukat had gotten the information, why Kira was there. Suddenly turning up on the station, claiming that her new life on an idyllic University campus didn’t “suit” her. “I just want to lead a quiet life, you won’t even know I’m here.” Oh yes, Odo had made it his business to watch her very closely. 

She was nothing more than a shadow when she came on the station. Just a bunch of bones and those big eyes, always on the brink of something that could be panic or violence or both. He had seen her with Kira, how they sought each other out and then shrank from each other. He had followed her on the nights when she haunted the station, talking to herself, always moving her hands, twitching her head this way and that. If he hadn’t known better he would have thought she was dancing. 

On the night the Commander had given his dinner, Odo knew he hadn’t been invited as a social courtesy: he was there to observe, evaluate, report. He saw how her thumbs stroked her wrists, he noticed how the sleeves of her dresses were always long. He had heard the barely repressed fury in her voice when she spoke. He had seen it, he knew: this girl was not only more than ready to take lives - she had already done it. More than once. And recently.

Since then, he had been waiting for the message he was now reading once again on his PADD. Some crime, some murder; a dead body, probably a man’s, and the girl somehow involved. Close by. A neighbour, maybe, a professor at the University, a fellow student, a suitor. But only when he saw the message did he realise that he had also been dreading it. Because he was equally sure of two things: that Ziyal had indeed been involved in a very direct manner in the murder of Lamar Torel; and that she should not be punished for it. 

 

What to do, then? After so many years living amongst solids, asking for help, or even just advice, still wasn’t easy for Odo… 

Well, it was different with Nerys, of course. If the problem had concerned anyone else, he would have talked to her first, he wouldn’t even have thought about it. Just looking at her face, knowing that she was listening and seriously considering everything he said, would have made him feel better and eventually helped him to find a solution. Nerys’ face always made him feel better… But of course she was the one person whose advice he could *not* seek in this matter. She was far too emotional about the girl… and about Dukat. That was something he would have to consider more closely. Soon. But not today.

the next logical choice would have been Doctor Bashir. He had taken an interest in the girl and Odo believed he was concerned about her well-being not only as a doctor, but as a friend. He was a level-headed, intelligent, compassionate man. No doubt he could easily issue some kind of medical report to the effect that Ziyal’s mental state made her unfit for any kind of questioning, and after that it would be no problem to delay and divert: present the investigators with evidence that led away from Ziyal, find loopholes, other suspects, perhaps have the girl temporarily relocated until the whole thing blew over. And it would blow over. Odo would see to that. 

But the doctor was away on a medical conference, and Odo didn’t want to explain the details of what he wanted on subspace. He could have sent a coded transmission, of course, but that would arouse suspicion as well, and Odo still hoped to keep the matter as low profile as possible. 

Which only left - Garak. It was obvious to anyone (anyone who wanted to see) that the girl was sick, and over the last weeks it had become clear that Mr. Garak was somehow a part of Bashir’s treatment plan for her. It was equally clear that, whatever the plan was, it was working. Garak had some kind of access to her that no one had been able to establish before, not doctor Bashir, not the Commander, not even Kira. 

But why was he doing it? Was he acting strategically, merely seizing a chance to position himself close to Dukat? Garak wasn’t the only one who knew that Dukat wouldn’t stay in obscurity very long - he would rise to power again, and when he did it would be useful, to say the least, to be owed a favour by him. Having been instrumental in saving his daughter’s life might be considered a rather sizeable favour. Garak also knew that it was always dangerous to be associated to Dukat in any way, especially where his precious daughter was concerned. But in this case the advantages clearly outweighed the possible risks. It would be a smart move on Garak’s part. A logical move. 

Or - did he actually care for the girl? About what happened to her, her future, if she lived or died? That was the question, wasn’t it? If he did, Odo wouldn’t need to look further for a solution, and the wouldn’t need to involve anyone else. It would be be easy for someone like Garak to just - make it all go away. After all, he was a master spy. That’s what spies did. 

If he didn’t - how could he deliver that kind of information into Garak’s hand? Maybe he wouldn’t do anything now, maybe he would even pretend to help, but there would always be a shadow on the girl’s life. If there was one thing Ziyal didn’t need it was another shadow; another pitfall; another danger to avoid. Another man trying to take advantage of her. 

Odo was fond of her. Not that he had spoken much to her, but he had always been drawn to people who stood apart. Lost creatures, like himself. And now, as dramatic as it sounded, her fate was in his hands, and he needed to make a decision. Alone.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal has a dream. Garak comes to tell her some news.

Ziyal woke up from her own screams. Her father’s voice was still ringing in her ears. 

 

_I will find him._

In the dream, she was on the Klingon ship. It was empty, no crew, and Ziyal was wandering the empty corridors. She could feel someone walking behind her. She moved only when Ziyal moved, she could feel how she took every breath with her, her body almost touching Ziyal’s. She knew it was Tora, of course. If she turned around, she would finally see her face. But Ziyal would not turn around. She would die first. 

The corridors stretched out before her endlessly, there was always another corner, another closed door who led to yet another corridor. Then she came to a door that looked like all the others, but she knew it was different. The bridge was on the other side. She stepped through it. Her father was there. He was smiling and he said: “My little darling. My Ziyal.” But she didn’t feel happy and safe as she had when she was a child and he said those words to her. A cold hand gripped her heart, and she realised that there was no one else on the ship because her father had killed them all. Ziyal looked at her feet and saw they were red. She was barefoot and had walked all the way to the bridge through the blood of murdered men. 

She wanted to run away then, but couldn’t. Her father wanted to say one more thing, and she had to hear it. 

_He is not here, he said. But I will find him._

 

Ziyal threw off her covers and got up. She looked at her feet. They were clean. Of course they were. In the bathroom, she took off her nightgown and put it in the recycling unit, although she had only put on a clean one tonight. She felt dirty. She washed her hands and her face. As she looked in the mirror, for a second she saw Lamar Torel’s face there. She closed her eyes. But he didn’t go away. She could feel his breath, just as she had felt Tora’s in her dream. His mouth on her neck, his hands on her thighs and breasts. 

She waited then: for the feeling of a fist in her stomach, the sharp pain between her eyes, the nausea. The symptoms had receded over the last month, but not disappeared. It never happened during the day now, only at night, usually after a nightmare. Sometimes before she went to bed, or right after she got up. But it didn’t last so long. Now, she knew it would be over eventually. She didn’t have to cut bloody lines into her thighs, she didn’t have to replicate an entire cake and eat it, she didn’t have go out and to wander around the station for hours. In fact she hadn’t done any of that - for how long? Well, a couple of weeks at least. Maybe more. 

 

_You know exactly how long it’s been. You’re being coy now. It’s disgusting. I think I’m going to vomit._

Yes, some nights Tora was still there too. Tora, who still thought Ziyal was weak and pathetic, of course. But now she seemed to hate one other person even more than she hated Ziyal or anyone who had ever tried to hurt her, including Lamar Torel. 

_He will hurt you. He will deceive you. You should have killed him when I told you to. You still can. He will be in his shop, he’s there every night. Go, go right now. Do it and you will be free._

Ziyal could feel a film of sweat settling on her skin, although she was still naked and the environmental controls were set low for the night. It made her sick to hear the words Tora was speaking, to feel them inside her. But they were already receding, as if someone had grabbed Tora and started dragging her away from Ziyal: through the bathroom and bedroom, the living area, through the door, corridors, bulkheads, other people’s quarters and finally out into space, her voice frozen at last. 

 

A shower. A nice cool shower was what she needed. Ziyal was about to step into it when the door-chime sounded. She threw on a robe and went to the door. She knew who it was. 

“Were you asleep?”

“Yes, but I woke up again. I had a nightmare. I was about to take a shower.”

He didn’t ask what the nightmare was about or why she thought she might have had one (“you shouldn’t eat anything before going to bed”, the things people say), he didn’t ask if she was feeling better. Nightmares were a matter of course, you had them, they went away, they came again. Nothing to analyse there, nothing more to say. Everyone knew a shower after a nightmare was the best thing to do, so Garak just nodded. 

“I can wait.”

Not “I’m sorry to disturb you”, not “I know it’s a bit late, but…”, not “Do you mind if…” Garak walked over to the bookshelf, took out a book seemingly at random, sat down on the sofa and started to read. 

This was what he did. Ziyal was sure that if she just stepped out of her robe right there and walked naked to the shower he wouldn’t even move, wouldn’t look, wouldn’t make a comment - and when she came back, she would find the robe neatly folded on a chair. 

She considered it for a second. Drop the robe, sit beside him. Just like that. Surely he would do or say *something* then. Would he scold her? Or maybe just look at her and shake his head, the way he used to when she did something he considered childish? Or would he look at her - differently? Would he touch her?

“No shower then?”

He didn’t look up from the book. It was another Terran book, called “The Neverending Story” (who could resist a title like that?). Garak had opened it about half through and was reading intently. Ziyal was sure that the hadn’t just picked up the book at random: he knew where it was, he knew what it was about, and he knew exactly which part he wanted to read. It made her want to slap him across the face. Instead, she walked into the bathroom and took a shower. When she came out, Garak closed the book. 

“Better?”

What Ziyal wanted to say was “it’s always better when you are here”. Or maybe “I wish you would stop coming to my room late at night, it makes me nervous”. But she wasn’t sure that Tora wouldn’t bite off her tongue if she actually said something like that, so she just shrugged and sat beside Garak on the sofa. She had her robe on and underneath it, a clean nightgown. One with long sleeves. 

“I had a conversation with Odo today.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He had a communication from Bajor. The University near Jalanda City. That’s the one you attended, isn’t it?”

Ziyal nodded. Speaking would have been - difficult. 

“It seems Bajoran authorities were requesting his - assistance in the investigation of a certain incident that took place there some months ago. Involving a professor of geology, it seems. Or should I say a former professor. He’s not a professor anymore since it seem he’s quite dead.”

She waited for Tora’s voice to scream in her ears: run! Kill him first and then run! Save yourself! Don’t look back! 

But Tora was silent. Everything was silent. All Ziyal could hear was her own breath. Garak was still speaking, and she understood what he said, but it was as if his words were coming from her own chest, and each one was taking a bloody piece of her heart with it. 

“Constable Odo found himself - busy and asked me to take care of the matter for him. He is kind enough to sometimes let me assist him with small, administrative matters. He knows I like to feel useful.”

Ziyal was sure that she would not be able to speak, but the voice that came out of her mouth sounded like her own. 

“Please don’t talk like that. Please.” 

Garak took her hand.

“Yes, you are right of course. I am sorry. I just came to tell you that I did take care of the matter, and that you don’t have to worry anymore. I…”

“You… took care of it?”

“Yes. It’s done. Finished. The incident. The investigation. It’s all gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes. There will be no investigation, at least none involving you, and in a fews months, it will be as if Lamar Torel had never existed.”

They were silent for a while. Ziyal started to count her breathing, one two, one two, in out, in out. Someone had shown her how to do that, but she didn’t remember who.

“Garak?”

“Yes?”

“I think I am going to throw up.”

Instead, she started to tremble, so hard that her knees were knocking together. Ziyal looked away, waiting for him to leave now that he had said what he had come to say. But he didn’t leave. He came closer, put his arms around her, and waited for the trembling to stop. Only then he asked again: “Better?”

Without even thinking about what she was doing, Ziyal hugged him, hard, burying her face against his shoulder. They stayed like that for a long time. And Garak whispered: “Gone, you hear? Gone and buried and forgotten. He can never come back. He can never hurt you. No one will ever hurt you again. I promise.”

And this time, Ziyal was sure she had not imagined it.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak remembers his father's housekeeper. Ziyal gets a new dress.

22.

“Will you read to me?”

“Not today, my- Not today. Maybe tomorrow.”

 

She had promised she would try to sleep, and he could tell by the little wrinkles around her eyes that she would do just that. It would be good sleep, he hoped. The kind without dreams. He had promised they would meet the next day. 

So many promises. Too many. 

 

The shop was dark, but Garak didn’t need lights. He had learned early in his life to adapt to darkness and besides, he had spent so many hours in that shop, he was sure that even if he was suddenly struck blind he could find every single needle. He walked over to the main work-table, where Ziyal and he had been working on her dress for the past few days. She had insisted she wanted to do it all by herself and the result was, of course, a complete disaster: the stitches were either too tight or too loose, the fabric was wrinkled and bunched in impossible places, and there was no way any even slightly humanoid-shaped person was ever going to be able to actually wear it. 

It didn’t seem to matter to her, though, and so it didn’t matter to him, either. They had laughed a lot, and they had talked a lot. Ziyal had spoken of her mother, how beautiful she was, how well she could sing, and sew, and make pretty things from beads, how she used to braid Ziyal’s hair. And he had told her of Mila: how she used too cook his favourite meals for him (only when Tain wasn’t home, of course), how he loved to help her clean around the house, the scary stories she told him of blood-sucking monsters and fire spirits that, once awakened, destroyed everything in their path. How she had shared her little herb-pipe with him. He had never told her that it made him sick to his stomach. He’d rather go afterwards and quietly vomit into the shrubs than miss even one of those moments, sitting on the stairs of the back entrance to the house with Mila, silently passing the pipe between them, the housekeeper and the small boy, watching the sun set and the stars appear above, counting the minutes until the master of the house came back. 

The pretty, young, happy mother and the grumpy yet kind housekeeper - only a part of their story, a small part that often got lost in the pain and disgust of everything else that was happening at the same time, and everything that came after. But that didn’t make it any less true. Ziyal’s mother *had* been young and pretty once, and she had loved to laugh; and Mila *had* been kind, whenever she could, in her own way. And it was good to talk about them.

How long was it since he’d thought about Mila? Really thought about her, pictured her face, the way she walked, her raucous laughter that always ended in elaborate coughing and spitting and gloomy assurances that she probably wouldn’t live through the week. Had he even told anyone about her, before Ziyal? Garak couldn’t remember. 

Thinking of Mila was good - it was what came with those thoughts that wasn’t so good, of course. Memories of the house, with all its dark corners, its coldness; the damp cellar. 

The cupboards. All those cupboards. Tain’s snarl, his crooked teeth. _Oh you pissed your pants, did you? Couldn’t hold it, could you? Afraid of the dark. Afraid of nothing but a plain old cupboard. What a disgusting little boy. Did I say boy? No, not a boy. A thing. You’re nothing but a thing, a creepy-crawly thing. Crawl away, thing, why don't you. Clean yourself up._

Those memories didn’t come when he was with Ziyal. But he was alone now and it was dark in the shop. Garak could hear Tain’s soft voice. If you didn’t listen to the words, it almost sounded like a lullaby. But little Elim listened, and he understood then that words had power, and he promised himself that he would learn to use that power for himself. One day, Elim Garak would whisper words in Enabran Tain’s ear, soft words, words that sounded like a lullaby, and he would see fear in Tain’s eyes. 

 

That was his goal. That was what he lived for. He had never told anyone. Sometimes he smiled to himself thinking about it and he knew others were looking at him and wondering about his smile. Kira, Bashir, Sisko. Dukat. Even Tain himself, when he had last seen him. They believed he had plans, intricate and fundamentally evil; to raise to power, or become unfathomably rich, or both; or perhaps just to bring wanton destruction. If they only knew how simple his dream was… 

The dream always made the voice go away. Well, almost always. When he could catch it in time, call it back before it fled and left only darkness. This time he fought it back easily. Soon he was calm again, smiling his smile, still standing by the work-station, in the dark, holding Ziyal’s little disaster of a dress. 

When she came the next day, he would tell her they wouldn’t sew together anymore. And when she asked him what they should do instead, he would say “nothing”. There would be no more doing things together. Doctor Bashir would be back from his trip, and Garak would tell him that he had done what he could and he would do no more. No more music, no more reading of poems; no more lunches or dinners or breakfasts, no more holodeck programs; no more walking together, just turning corners, not going anywhere, talking or being silent…

No more. 

“Lights, 30 percent.”

No more sitting in the dark thinking about Ziyal either. 

Garak folded the dress, as well as one could fold something as lumpy and misshapen as that, and placed it on the worktable. Ziyal was a smart girl, she would know what it meant. Maybe he wouldn’t have to say anything at all, and what a relief that would be. He was a silent man, how had he taken to talking so much?

Only one more night to pass, and then everything would be as it had been before. He would be alone again, and before long, Ziyal would start to look at him like the others. She would learn to mistrust him. Everything would be the way it should be. 

He took out another dress, one he had been working on for quite some time. It was almost done, and what better time to finish it? He started to work immediately, happily humming one of the little tunes he had picked up from Mila. He remembered the words had been quite racy, but he couldn’t remember them. It was just as well, he just felt like humming. 

Bolian embroidery was very delicate, it required a very special kind of needle. This was not the kind of dress anyone bought. It had to be given.

 

Elim Garak was not the kind of man who lost track of time. But when Ziyal stepped into the shop the next morning, he looked up at her as if awoken from a dream. He had spent the whole night working on the dress, adding a touch here, a single thread there, long after he knew it was finished and perfect, just the the way it was. And then, for the last hour, or maybe two, he had just sat there, with the dress in his lap, his fingers holding a needle with no thread in it. 

Ziyal put her hand on his shoulder. 

“Garak?”

“… Yes, my dear?”

“Are you all right?”

“Perfectly all right. Why do you ask?”

“You look - a bit off. Have you… have you been sitting here all night?”

“Ah… yes, yes, I have. There was… something I…”

Something he wanted to tell her. Something important. But what?

“Oh Garak, how lovely! Did you finish it? Let me see!”

She was pointing to the dress he was holding. He stood up and held it out for her: fine and flowing, a light shade of lavender, with golden embroidery in geometric and yet strangely organic shapes, almost like waves, clustering heavy at the hem and cuffs and spreading out to the neckline, where they almost disappeared, leaving only the slightest shimmer. Ziyal stretched out her hand but didn’t quite touch it. 

“It’s - it’s as if it’s made of moonbeams.” 

There was only one thing to say to that. 

“It’s yours.”

As he said it, he knew it was true. Hadn’t he been thinking of her with every stitch of the needle? Hadn’t he chosen the shapes and patterns thinking of her? He hadn’t taken her measurements, but he didn’t need to: his hands had done the work for him. 

He put the dress in her hands, and she took it without a word. She started tugging at the zip of her dress, then turned to him with a laugh and a question on her face. “Back room”, he said, pointing. As she walked over, he could tell she was trying not to run. He waited. 

“Um…”

“Yes? Everything ok in there?”

“I think I may need some help.”

The room was dark and she was standing in it like a flame. The dress was open at the back - it didn’t close with a zipper, but with a seemingly infinite number of tiny golden hooks. The patterns and the fabric were Bolian, but the cut was traditional Cardassian. Garak put Ziyal’s braid over her shoulder and then closed the hooks, one by one, taking his time. When he was finished, Ziyal didn’t run in search of a mirror to look at herself, as he had half expected. She turned and looked at him. 

“Is this for me?”

“Yes, it is for you.” 

“Really?”

“Very really.”

And right before her lips touched his, he knew exactly how they would taste. He had always known. 

 

The little heap of a dress Garak had so carefully laid out on the table was left unnoticed. Ziyal hadn’t even looked at it. From the moment she had come it, she had only seen him.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian is back, and Ziyal is happy to seem him. At first.

23.

It was the feeling she knew so well of a fog surrounding her, making objects and people look far away and unimportant. But this time the fog wasn’t pressing on her, taking away the air to breathe, paralysing her. This time she felt as if she were floating through it, as if it was carrying her. There were no memories in this fog, only dreams. 

Five minutes after leaving Garak’s shop, carrying her dress in a bag he had given her, she couldn’t remember what he had said, or what she had said in return. Maybe it was because no one had, in fact, said anything. In any case, it didn’t matter. There would be plenty of time to talk, and to be silent, and then talk again. For now, all she wanted to do was walk in this fog, look at the the people passing by her side, smile at them. If something wonderful had happened to her, why couldn’t it happen to them too? Suddenly it seemed possible, and not ridiculous at all, that everyone should be happy. 

 

“Julian!” 

She hadn’t even known that she was going to sickbay, but now she thought, of course this is where I was coming, where else would I want to be right now? And there he was, standing next to one of his consoles in his blue and grey uniform, as if he’d never been away. 

“I am so happy to see you again! When did you get back? Why didn’t you say anything? I didn’t even get a postcard!”

It had only been a week, but to Ziyal it felt like it had been much longer. She had been too confused and angry and afraid to know it before, but seeing him now she realised that Julian Bashir was indeed her friend, the best she had - maybe the only one she had, because Garak… Garak was something else, something she yet had to find out. 

Yes, she had missed Julian. And right now there was nothing she wanted more than to sit with him and tell him everything that had happened, everything that she was feeling - well, maybe not everything. She wouldn’t need to tell him everything. He would just know. And he would understand, she was sure of it. He would listen and then he would look at her with those gentle eyes and he would say exactly the right thing. 

“Oh, Ziyal! What a pleasant surprise. How are you?”

“I’m - well, I’m glad you asked, because I actually am fine. More than fine. I’m great. I’m excellent. I’m supercalifragiliticexpialiotious. What about you?”

She was laughing now, anticipating his flabbergasted expression, then his own laughter. They’d have one of their lunches that went on for hours and she’d tell him some outrageous story about that word and he would pretend to believe it, only to then correctly guess that she had read it in a book - of course she had read it in a book, where else? He’d tell her funny stories about the medical conference he’d attended, and she’d tease him that he had made them all up and that he’d spent all the time at the bar flirting with the ladies. And then somewhere in the middle of all that she would tell him about what had happened with Garak, and they would-

“I’m very well, thank you.”

It was Julian’s face, it was his voice, and it seemed to be his smile, but there was nothing behind it. The laughter froze in Ziyal’s throat. She felt as if she was standing at the edge of a black cold precipice, and if either of them said one wrong word, or if she looked away for one second, she would fall. 

“I - Julian… are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, fine. I’m fine. Absolutely. Just trying to catch up with what I missed. Look at this, 2345 messages in one week. You people just can’t live without me, huh?”

He shot her another little smile and sat down at the console, reading and already starting to reply to some of the messages. 

“Uh, ok… so I guess you’ll be busy settling in for a while then.”

He looked up. 

“Not if there’s something you need, of course. You know I’m here for you, Ziyal.”

_This is wrong. *He* is wrong. Get out of here. Get out of here right now. Don’t say anything, don’t ask anything. Just leave._

This time, Tora’s voice didn’t startle or frighten her, and she didn’t try to push it away either. She embraced it as the voice of an old friend. 

“Oh no, it’s fine. Like I said, I’m feeling good. I just wanted to say welcome back.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you, Ziyal. It’s good to be back.”

“I’ll see you around then.”

“Oh yes, we’ll have lunch, won’t we? Tuesday, as usual?”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“Oh - right. Wow, I suppose I lost track of time. One too much panels on the symptoms of Kelvian lung infection, I guess. Next Tuesday then?”

“Next Tuesday.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too.”

Her hands felt cold, and there was a pressure building between her eyes. She realised she was going to cry and fought back the tears. Just a day, or even a couple of minutes ago she wouldn’t have minded crying in front of Julian Bashir. Now, everything had changed. 

She nodded a last time in his direction before forcing herself to walk and not run out of sickbay, but he didn’t see any of it. He was staring at his screen again with a fiercely concentrated expression, as if his life depended on those 2345 messages. 

 

She started to walk again, not knowing where she was going, just feeling a need to move, as she had during so many nights. On those nights, even though she was always alone, always careful that no one was following her, seeking out the most lonely and abandoned places, even then she had felt eyes on her constantly. She was sure that someone was watching her, taking note of every movement. As if she was being evaluated. Now she realised that, if she really wanted to be alone, this was what she should have done: just walk through the station at the busiest hour. Hundreds of people from dozens of species, all living in their own minds, spinning around their own little worlds, all looking at her and still seeing nothing. 

As she walked past Garak’s shop, she saw him sitting in the back, typing on his computer. Probably doing accounts, he liked doing accounts. Adding up numbers and getting results that were either right or wrong. He found it relaxing. She thought: Garak will know, he’s Julian’s friend too. He will not look past me, his voice will not slide off me like oil. He will listen to me, and then he will just shake his head and tell me I’m a silly girl. He’ll say I just need to breathe better, or that I missed an exercise session, something like that. That I’m imagining things. Maybe he will take me in his arms again, and kiss me, and we’ll both forget about everything else. 

But Tora said _no, don’t stop, don’t go in; you can’t talk to Garak now, not about this_ , and Ziyal didn’t stop. She looked back over her shoulder to catch one last glimpse of his small, stocky figure, hunched over his numbers - then she turned a corner, and he was gone. 

She stopped in front of the Bajoran temple. It would be quiet in there. There wasn’t a service so it would probably be empty, but even if there was someone there, no one would ask her anything, no one would talk to her. She stepped in and saw one slender figure in a Bajoran militia uniform standing in front of the shrine, arms raised in the meditation posture. 

_You were looking for her_ , Tora said. 

And Ziyal said: “Hello, Nerys. I was looking for you.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kira and Ziyal have a chat. It doesn't go quite as planned. Ziyal realizes something important.

24.

Kira didn’t look good. She had always been thin, but now Ziyal could see her collarbones protruding from under the uniform, and the uniform itself wasn’t fitting her snugly, like it used to; it sagged and bulged at odd places, like the dress she and Garak had made together. I wonder what he’s done with that dress, she thought. I suppose he’s thrown it away by now.

“Ziyal!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh no, you didn’t - oh well, yes, I suppose you did startle me a little. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Her laughter sounded a little nervous, and there were dark rings around Kira’s eyes which Ziyal couldn’t remember having seen there before. But then, how long had it been since she’d talked to Kira, since they’d been standing face to face like this? 

“I can come back later, if… or we could meet, uh, somewhere… it’s just…”

“Ziyal? What is it? Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine, I- well, actually, I don’t know. I feel kind of… strange and I - I’m just really glad I found you.”

Again there were tears pooling in Ziyal’s eyes, but this time she didn’t mind it so much. If they came, they came. She could handle crying in front of Major Kira. 

“What happened?”

“What has *not* happened?”

Now she was both laughing and crying a little bit, and it felt silly and good. The fog had lifted. Ziyal felt Tora’s voice poking against her ears, wanting to pour words into her head, but something about the temple made it easier to push it away. Not now, Ziyal thought. I want to talk to Kira now. Me, not you. 

They sat down cross-legged close to the shrine, so no one who was casually looking through the entrance would be able to see them. Kira made a face and said: “I’m definitely having the Vedek put some benches in here.”

“I thought nothing was supposed to distract the worshippers from communion with the prophets.” 

“Well, my back is distracting me pretty badly when I have to sit on the floor like this, and I am betting I am not the only one. Besides, it’s not a firm rule, more a suggestion.”

“I didn’t know you had a bad back.”

“Too much crawling around in damp tunnels when I was in the resistance. It’s in my hands too. By the time I’m fifty I’ll have hooks instead of fingers.”

Without thinking about it, Ziyal took Kira’s hands and held them in hers. They didn’t feel like hooks; they felt cool and small and slight. Just like mine - killer’s hands, she thought, and it was Ziyal who thought it, not Tora. She took a deep breath. 

“I’ve missed you”, Ziyal said. 

“Me too. And so happy you are here, so I can tell you how sorry I am.”

“Sorry?”

“Yes. For not being around lately. For not - checking in on you.”

“I don’t need anyone checking in on me. I can take care of myself.”

Kira smiled. 

“You know what I mean. I care about you. I shouldn’t have… it’s just, I’ve been so busy lately, everything is - complicated, and…”

“And I’ve been spending most of my time with Garak, and you hate Garak, so…”

“I don’t hate him, Ziyal. I don’t particularly like him, and I definitely don’t trust him. And the way Julian decided to just - hand you over to him like that, I…”

Ziyal pulled her hands from out of Kira’s so quickly that the major couldn’t suppress a startled sound. While Kira was still struggling to get up, Ziyal was already standing at the other end of the room, near the entrance, with her back to it. 

“I was not *handed over*. Not by Julian, not by anyone. I made a choice. Can you understand that? Me. I was feeling bad, help was offered, and I took it.”

“Ziyal, please, I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean it like that, I…”

“And you know what? It was a good choice. The best I could have made. Maybe the only one. Julian knew that, and if you could have looked past your own prejudices and, and stupid little personal problems you would have seen it too.”

Kira started to walk towards Ziyal, but stopped midway, her hands raised in the air in a soothing gesture that made Ziyal think about her little knives again. Lovely little knives, so shiny and sharp and smooth against her skin. She had never shown them to Garak, although she was sure he knew about them. Maybe it was time to do that. 

But then Kira dropped her hands, and came one step closer, and another one. Had it been only a few minutes ago that Ziyal thought she might find solace here, counsel, comfort in a moment of confusion? 

“I am sorry if what I said offended you, Ziyal. I probably should have found another way to express it.”

“Probably, yes.” 

“But that’s how it seemed to me at the time, and if *you* were able to look past your own prejudices, you would see that it just means that I care about you. I worry about you and I don’t want you to get hurt. That is all.”

The words were reasonable and Ziyal could see that Kira was trying to compose a calm and friendly expression. But the steps the major had taken toward her had not been an offer to regain the closeness they had been sharing a few moments ago - they had been a warning, and they both knew that. Ziyal waited, for what, she didn’t quite know. This strange day was not yet over.

And then it came. 

“I made a promise to your father, to keep you safe, to keep you away from - from any harm, and it’s a promise I intend to keep.”

Now it all made sense.

The day she had first arrived on the station. Kira was there to meet her, but she’d seemed nervous and had left her alone with Julian. Ziyal remembered looking at Kira and thinking “she fears me”. She hadn’t known then how or why Kira could possibly be afraid of her, she had been in a panic that Kira could know about Lamar, about what happened. 

_I made a promise to your father._

At the camp, her father pointing at her with his weapon, his mouth forming the words “I’m sorry”. Then Kira’s hand on her father’s arm. The way they looked at each other. 

Kira’s fury when she found Ziyal alone in her quarters with Garak, she had been practically trembling with rage. And her father’s warning: _If you have any kind of dealings with him, if you even so much as greet him when you pass his shop - and believe me, I will find out if you do - I will fly this ship straight to Deep Space 9, I will find him and I will slit his throat in the middle of a promenade._

Yes, it made sense. 

“You’re waiting for him, aren’t you?”

“Waiting for whom?”

“You’re waiting for my father.”

Kira didn’t miss a beat. She sighed, theatrically annoyed. Then she smiled and bridged the distance to Ziyal in two steps, and when she arrived by her side, she was the old Kira. Ziyal tried to take a step back, but her head was starting to spin. 

“All right”, Kira said. “I think we’ve both said enough nonsense for one day. I have a proposal: why don’t we get out of here, got to Quark’s, and have one of those big, orange drinks with umbrellas in them? And a big bowl of those little nuts he has, the ones that you just can’t stop eating. And then you can tell me everything that has happened and everything you’ve been doing, and I promise I won’t say a word about Mr. Garak. How does that sound?”

Ziyal nodded and let Kira take her by the arm and lead her out of the temple and down the front steps, as if she was a child or an old woman. As they walked down the Promenade, Kira was speaking fast and loud and again Ziyal thought “she fears me”, but it was a dull, flat thought. 

“… and thank the Prophets that Julian is back, because we are really going to need-“

Julian. There was something she wanted to tell Kira about Julian. Julian who was not Julian. Julian who’s eyes were like little silvery coins now. Julian who had brought Tora back… But it probably didn’t matter. It was good to have Tora back. Ziyal would go somewhere quiet and dark and Tora and she, they would talk, and all would clear again. 

“Major! Major Kira!”

It was Odo, running towards them. Ziyal didn’t even know he knew how to run. The broad lines of his face were set into an expression of anxiety, bordering on panic. Ziyal didn’t know Odo was capable of panicking, either. 

“I need you to come with me right away.”

“Well, Constable, I am sorry to disappoint you, but Ziyal and I-

“It will have to wait.”

“What do you mean, it will have to wait? I just told you-”

“Come with me. Now.”

He extended his hand as if to touch her arm, then dropped it. His expression didn’t change, but his voice did when he softly added: “Please, Nerys.”

Kira turned to Ziyal. 

“I have to go. I’ll - I’ll stop by your quarters later, all right. We’ll have our talk, I won’t forget.”

“It’s ok, Nerys. It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it’s-“ 

Finally, Kira didn’t finish the sentence, just turned and left with Odo, who was already whispering in her ear. 

Ziyal closed her eyes, listening to the sound of the Promenade buzzing around her. Hundreds of people from dozens of species, all living in their own minds, spinning around their own little worlds, all looking at her and still seeing nothing… Yes, it was time to have a nice long talk with Tora.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sisko needs some information. Garak wants something in exchange. Kira is not herself, and someone else isn't either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you familiar with the Deep Space 9 timeline, this chapter is where I begin to deviate from it more noticeably. Although I’m keeping Garak’s trip to the Gamma Quadrant, the Cardassian-Dominion treaty and the retaking of DS9 (both of them) as plot points, there are going to be some changes, minor and not so minor. 
> 
> For those of you not familiar with the Dominion and the Changelings, this from Memory Alpha: “Odo was a Changeling. The Changelings were liquid-based, shapeshifting lifeforms native to the Gamma Quadrant of the Milky Way Galaxy. Changelings could take virtually any corporeal form, ranging from humanoid aliens to fog to reflective surfaces. Founders of the Dominion were Changelings, and made up the majority of the Dominion's leadership. By placing Changeling infiltrators in important positions within the governments of the Alpha and Beta Quadrant's major powers, the Dominion was able to wipe out the Obsidian Order, drastically reduce the capabilities of the Tal Shiar, nearly cause a war between the Federation and the Tzenkethi, and start a war between the Klingon Empire and the Cardassian Union, an act which concurrently caused a conflict between the Federation and Klingons.”  
> (Taken from the articles “Odo”, “Changelings”, “Dominion” and “Dominion War” on Memory Alpha where there’s much more information, of course.)

25.

“How many ships does he have and how far is he from Deep Space 9? Because he’s coming here, isn’t he? So, we need to prepare. We need to send for reinforcements, to the Federation, and to Bajor, yes, and we need to, um, strengthen our defences and…”

As Kira’s hands were fluttering about her, her wrists looked so thin that they looked as if they just might break off and fly across the room. Kira had been a soldier all her life, and Odo knew she was not a great strategist, not a thinker; she didn’t like being stuck in a room with admirals and generals and leaders, moving little ships around charts and crunching numbers; but she was quick to think of the easiest way to solve an immediate problem. Often, her way was the rough way, but it was effective. She was the one who cut to the chase, who spoke up and presented the situation as it was; and she was always the first to volunteer for the most dangerous mission. You might say she was fearless, or you might say she was reckless. What she wasn’t was nervous. Not in a crisis situation. Not ever, that Odo could remember. Until now. 

How could he calm her down? What could he say that would reassure, but not make her feel exposed? Everyone thought she was so strong, and yet she was as fragile as a bird just fallen out of its nest…

“Major Kira. You need to snap out of it, and you need to focus, now.”

Well, not everyone knew that aspect of her, of course, and Commander Sisko certainly wasn’t in the mood to ponder anyone’s intrinsic frailties. As always, his deep voice filled the room, but his tone was sharp and had nothing of the warmth and geniality it could radiate when he wanted it to. Odo had become used to think of him as a diplomat, the governor of this small citadel they all inhabited; a reluctant religious figure; an increasingly vital player in the politics of the quadrant; and also a family man who liked to cook, to eat, to laugh with his friends, and an unfathomable game called baseball. But before and above all that, Odo reminded himself now, he was a soldier and a Starfleet officer.

“It’s not a question of how many ships Dukat has, major, or where he is. If our intelligence is accurate, and it seems very likely that it is, he has negotiated the entry of the Cardassian Union into the Dominion, or is very close to signing the deal. Gul Dukat would be the leader of the Cardassian Union, as part of the Dominion, right here in the Alpha Quadrant. How many ships? If this holds true, he would have *all* the ships. How far away? Everywhere. He will be everywhere.” 

Kira was pressing both her hands to the table now, staring right in front of her. That’s it, Nerys, Odo thought. Breathe. Just breathe. He turned to the Commander, hoping to divert his attention and give Kira time to pull herself together. 

“So the most pressing question would be, *is* this information accurate? Where did it come from?” 

As if in answer to his question, the door slid open and in walked Garak, followed by Worf. 

“Mr. Garak, thank you for joining us.”

“A pleasure as always, commander. And it is so nice of you to send Mr. Worf here as an - escort. Hardly a necessary gesture but still, much appreciated.”

“Lieutenant Commander Worf is not an escort, Mr. Garak. He is Starfleet’s strategic operations officer in this sector and, as such, has come across certain information. Information that we believe you can confirm or deny. You are here to do just that. No more, and no less.”

“Ah. I see. Well, I am at your service, commander Sisko. You know that whenever I can help out the Federation or Starfleet, within my modest means…”

Worf leaned in very closely to Garak, who was no the only one in the room sitting and looking rather at ease. But Odo could see that Worf made even Garak nervous. Worf made everyone nervous.

“Has Gul Dukat signed a treaty to enter the Cardassian Union into the Dominion? Do you know anything about that, Mr. Garak?”

As an afterthought, Worf added: “Any information on the subject would be - extremely helpful?”

Garak looked at all of them in turn: Worf, Sisko, Kira, Odo. Then back at Kira. She was no longer leaning on the table, but standing across from Garak and looking straight at him. 

“Commander. I am astonished, truly. Astonished at this news, should it be true, and astonished that you could possibly believe that I, of all people, have access to this kind of intelligence?”

“Mr. Worf?”, Sisko said.

Worf was clenching his fists, Odo could hear his knuckles creaking, and he was sure Garak could too. Once he had heard Worf say that he was such a cowardly traitor as Garak must have had some Romulan blood in him… 

“We intercepted some encrypted communications. It seems as if you might have received the same communications. Perhaps you have had - better luck in… deciphering them.”

“How very flattering! I had no idea you considered me interesting enough to intercept my communications. Might I also add, it *is* quite illegal. And, as it seems, ineffective as well. All in all, I must say, it doesn’t seem like a very good strategy, Commander.” 

“You are very welcome to file a complaint.”

Now Sisko was hovering over Garak on one side while Worf continued to lean in from the other. Garak was no longer nervous, in fact, it seemed he was clearly enjoying the situation. 

“I think I will do just that.” 

It was plain to see that Garak had a plan. Odo could see that he wanted something, and it seemed like he was quite confident that he would get it in exchange for the information, or rather confirmation, Sisko wanted. Which was why he was enjoying the moment, seeing the Commander and Worf squirm, while they were trying, to no avail, to make *him* squirm. 

Odo could understand that, he liked to make people squirm as much as anyone, especially people in positions of authority. He glanced over at Kira again: no, this definitely wasn’t the day for those kind of games. He would have to - how did they call it at the card games at Vic’s? Up the ante. He would have to up the ante. 

“I don’t think you will do that, Mr. Garak. What I think is that you will tell us what you know and then, maybe, we will consider whatever - request you may have in mind.”

“Request? Whatever can you mean?”

“Or you can come with me, we take a walk, and you tell us what we need to know anyway. Only you don’t get anything out of it, except an extended stay in sickbay with your good friend Dr. Bashir.” 

Odo didn’t expect Garak (and hopefully not Sisko or Worf either) to take that threat seriously. But he knew that Garak knew that once he *had* been that kind of a man. They had recognised each other soon enough. He just needed him to get the message. 

Garak just continued to look around as if this was a pleasant tea party, with that half smile of his that could drive anyone insane if exposed to it for enough time - especially Kira. Had Odo been wrong about Garak’s strategy? Maybe he already had whatever he wanted. Or maybe he had no information whatsoever, and he just enjoyed toying with them. Odo was just considering how much the discomfort of a night in the brig on some easily trumped up charge might influence Garak’s position, when his comm-badge beeped. 

“Ziyal to Odo.”

“This is not a good time, Ms. Ziyal. I will get back to you later.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just - I wondered if you knew where Mr. Garak is? I went by his shop and it was dark and closed, and I can’t seem to be able to contact him and… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“Mr. Garak is - not available right now, Ms. Ziyal. If I see him, I will let him know that you are looking for him. Odo out.”

Why he had all but informed Ziyal that Garak was with him at that very moment, Odo didn’t know. From the look that Sisko was giving him, he suspected he was going to get an earful about that sometime in the near future. Garak’s face, meanwhile, had become completely unreadable. 

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Garak? You think you know it all, don’t you? You, you always come up on top, whatever happens. Like scum. But this time you’re wrong, so you better tell us. You better cooperate. Do you actually think that maybe Dukat *needs* you? Oh, he doesn’t need you, he doesn’t need anyone? He will come, and when he gets here, he will deal with people like you, you can be sure of that.”

Kira’s voice was dripping with hate. Just as he had never seen her frightened, Odo hadn’t seen her as passionate as this before either, and for a moment, he felt a kind of sadness. No one spoke. Worf seemed too dumbstruck with shock to react and Sisko was probably trying to calm himself down enough to sound more or less normal when he sent Kira out of the room. He took a deep breath and was about to speak, but Garak spoke first. 

“Yes. My sources confirm that Gul Dukat is indeed in the process of signing a treaty that will effectively make the Cardassian Union a part of the Dominion. The treaty will be finalised in no more than five days, but it may happen much sooner. Key points of the treaty include the advancement of Dukat to provisional leader of the Cardassian Union, of course, provisional meaning indefinite; the dispatch of a significant number Dominion troops to reinforce Cardassia; and the eventual retaking of Deep Space 9, this last item being a priority. I can have the whole communication decrypted and ready for you within the hour. Under no circumstances will I reveal the source.” 

Worf was the first one to manage a feeble “thank you.” Garak stood up, nodded, and started walking towards the door. Just a step before he reached it, he turned around, as if he had remembered a minor detail. 

“As for your offer to - compensate me for sharing this information: I require use of a runabout.” 

Sisko didn’t look at Worf, and not at Kira either; for some reason, he looked at Odo, and Odo nodded, once.

“I’m sure you understand I’m going to need some more information before I let you use one of my runabouts. 

“I’m going to the Gamma Quadrant. There’s a Dominion internment camp there, one of many. A prisoner camp. This one is number 371. I have received information that one of the inmates of Internment Camp 371 is - a person of interest to me.”

“So this is a rescue mission? Who is it?”

“I won’t know if it’s a rescue mission or not until I get there. As for who - Enabran Tain. I expect the name is not completely unfamiliar?”

“You want us to give you a ship to go the Gamma Quadrant to rescue the former head of the Obsidian Order? After what you’ve told us? I would laugh if it wasn’t so pathetic.”

Kira was very close to shrieking. Now, Sisko turned to her.

“Since Mr. Garak’s - request does pertain to Starfleet equipment, Mr. Worf and I will stay behind and discuss the issue with him. Constable, Major - thank you very much, I shall be contacting you shortly to review our… options in view of this new information.”

“But, Commander…?”

“The information about Dukat’s pact with the Dominion does concern Bajor, of course, I expect you will want to contact the government as soon as possible, and while you’re at it, please set up a meeting as soon as possible. You will not disclose our source, of course. As for Mr. Garak’s - mission, as of now it is on a need to know basis, and you don’t need to know.”

Odo positioned himself next to Kira and hoped his presence would somehow keep her from saying or doing something that would get her into much more trouble than she already was. He knew better than to try to touch her, or even speak to her. If she hasn’t moved when I reach ten, I’ll have to say something, he thought, and started counting. When he reached five, she started to walk towards the door. Before reaching it, just where Garak had turned, she turned too. 

“Why Tain, Garak? What is he to you?”

“I owe it to him.”

His voice was as flat as it had been during the whole last part of the conversation, from the moment he had, for some unfathomable reason, decided to drop his game. 

“Major? Need to know. I am not telling you again.”

“It’s all right, Commander. I don’t mind. And while we’re at it, there was another piece of information that my - source relied that might be of some interest to all of you.”

“Well, what is it, Mr. Garak?”

“It seems that, for some time now, there have been *two* Changelings on the station. Someone has been replaced.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal and Garak meet in Garak's shop before his trip.

26.

“I just have one small matter to attend to before me leave.”

“I’ll meet you in one hour in docking bay 5.”

“One hour will be plenty of time.” 

It was entirely possible that Lieutenant Commander Worf was already there waiting for him, wearing his grimmest face. Of course Garak had known beforehand that Sisko was not going to let him just fly away alone on one of his runabouts, but he had rather been counting on Constable Odo as a travel companion. Odo and Garak - they knew each other, they had found each other out. Besides, these days it was always a bonus to have one of his kind on hand, as a kind of travel insurance. 

And who knows, maybe he would have been able to convince Sisko of his plan, but Kira’s little outbreak about Dukat had made it impossible. Sisko probably had a pretty accurate idea of what Kira’s problem was - anyone with a spark of sensitivity within a radius of 100 meters would have known, which meant everyone in the room except for Worf. But Sisko didn’t want to know and, luckily, he had no time to deal with her. He needed her focused, alert, and thinking on her feet, and the only person on the station who could make that Kira available to him was Odo.

Which meant that Garak was going to Internment Camp 371 in the Gamma Quadrant to rescue Enabran Tain and/or gain intelligence on Dominion strategic movements with an almost two meter tall Klingon who most days would gladly rip his throat out for no particular reason, and who was especially pissed at having to leave now because a) with the imminent threat of a Cardassian-Dominion treaty, he thought his Commander needed him more on the station (probably true), and b) he had just started a relationship with Jadzia Dax and was secretly worried that his absence would make her change her mind (absurd, of course, and rather sad that he would think that of her - not a good omen for them). 

None of that mattered at all, of course. He could handle Worf. He could handle the Dominion and as many Jem’Hadar as they could throw at him. And he would - oh yes, he would - handle Enabran Tain. He could do all that because none of it really mattered to him. No, not even Tain. It was just - unfinished business. An unpaid bill, as it were, that needed to be taken care of. The message hadn’t made him feel anything. But it had reminded him where he came from, and who he was. Right on time, too. Before it was too late. Before he got - lost.

 

“I heard you were looking for me. As a matter of fact, I was looking for you, too. There is… I think there is something we need to discuss.”

The shop was still dark as he sat there, waiting for her. It would most probably never open again. Knowing Dukat, he would make an educational facility out of it, a museum, right in the center of the station, where everyone had to pass and see: “The Cardassian Union and the Dominion - together towards a glorious future.” Something like that. And somewhere in a not very well lit corner there would be a picture of him, not too big or prominent, but with a detailed description of his treacherous acts and his deserved and deservedly gruesome death. This is what happens to enemies of Cardassia.

Would she come to visit sometimes? Would she stand in front of the picture, remembering the time they had spent together? 

_Oh wonderful. Wallowing in self-pity. And this is the great hero who’s coming to rescue me? Are those tears in your eyes? Poor, poor Elim. Did I ruin your chance at happiness? Was that dirty little Bajoran bastard whore the love of your life? You don’t have to leave her on my account. By all means, stay with her, have lots of ugly bastard children. I don’t need the likes of you to come for me._

Garak didn’t try to fight back Tain’s voice. Might as well get used to it again. 

There was only half an hour left now, and still she hadn’t come. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she was smarter than him and had decided to spare them both, herself and him, that last scene. Yes, he shouldn’t have contacted her. He had heard it in her voice when she had spoken to Odo before - she was crumbling again. She had spoken to Bashir, most likely, and sensed that something was wrong. Of course, she would know, before anyone else. 

Why hadn’t she come to him, after that? By then, he had received the communication, knew about Tain, Bashir, Dukat. But he could still see her then, turning to him in the back room. Why, hadn’t she just left, five minutes ago? Wasn’t he still holding the dress that she had put into his hands, smiling, saying she’d come back for it later? If she had come then, straight to him - would it have been different? Would they have gone away? Boarded the next transport and disappeared? They could have done that - why not? And why couldn’t they do it now? 

_Oh, how perfectly romantic. You always dreamed of your life being like a novel, didn’t you? Always reading those trashy books, you think I didn’t know? No use trying to harden the likes of you. You’re nothing be more than a weak pathetic child with your head in the clouds. No amount of whipping will make a man out of *you*._

Fantasies. The fantasies of children. Take a ship, fly out together into the sunset - and then what? Dukat, Tain, the Dominion; Kira, Sisko, the Federation; they wouldn’t just disappear. There was nowhere to go. There was no escape. This was the Universe they lived in, and these were the persons they were. Sooner or later, she would understand. She was a tough girl, she would get on without him, and it was none of his business anyway. It never had been. All it had been was - a miscalculation. 

Now if he could only remember to breathe. If only there wasn’t this fog closing in on him. If only he didn’t feel so tired… 

 

“Miscalculation?”

“A - misconception, if you would. On both sides, probably.”

He could see her eyes breaking away to the sides, as if they were sliding out of her skull. She was listening to her own voices, and for a second he thought, maybe we should let my voice and her voice settle this, and meanwhile Ziyal and I could just quietly slip away. Laughter, or maybe a scream, wanted to bubble up his throat, but he fought it down. 

“It was - pleasant while it lasted. But the situation has changed now, and so we must change as well.” 

“Pleasant?”

He was beginning to be irritated by the way she was only repeating single words he’d said, looking at him with those big eyes, standing there, her shoulders slumped forward. He wanted to say to her “stand straight! Don’t mope! Don’t look at me like that! It’s time to stand on your own!” He wanted to just walk away and leave her there. 

But then her eyes refocused, she was looking straight at him, as she had so many times, and her voice was soft. 

“Please, Elim? What’s the matter? Can’t you tell me? It’s something about Julian, isn’t it? And about my father. I’ve been hearing things today… Is that why you have to go away?”

“Commander Sisko will inform you soon enough, or maybe major Kira.”

“But I don’t want to hear it from Kira or Sisko, I want to hear it from you! You’re my - you’re my best friend, you’re all I have!”

She wasn’t crying. It would have been easier if she had been. So much easier. 

“You see, my dear, that is what I was calling your… misconception. We are not friends. Dr. Bashir asked for my assistance with the treatment of certain - symptoms you were displaying, and I agreed, partly out of a sense of duty to a fellow Cardassian, and partly… well, frankly, I was bored. Bored to tears by this ugly, cold station, filled with people who hate me and who I most heartily hate back. You were a distraction. Nothing more.”

“And what happened this morning, right here in your shop, when you gave me that dress? When we were together in your little back room? Was that also part of the treatment? Or did you get - distracted?”

“That - should never have happened. For a moment, I let my fantasy run away with me, and for that, I apologize. It will never happen again.“

Ziyal was looking down at the floor now. Garak could see her chest move, but he couldn’t hear her breathing. He couldn’t hear his own breath either, and so he just kept talking, to check if he had gone completely deaf. 

“This is also why I think it would be better if we don’t see each other for a long while, and then, maybe-“

She took him by surprise. No one ever took Elim Garak by surprise, and yet, there he was, back to the wall, her knee right under his chest, crushing the tender spot beneath his ribs, her hands pinning his arms. Her mouth was brushing his ear.

“Are you bored? Is it all too much? Too much to bear? Is that it? Because if that is what is troubling you, if you suffer from ennui, Elim, I can end it. Just say the word. I can end it for you. Because you are right. I know you are right. There is no place for people like us. We come to these places, we try to fit in, to be friendly, to be useful even - and for what? They’ll never accept us, won’t they. They don’t want what we have to offer. So we just live out day after day, month after month, and it’s so cold, and so ugly, and nothing makes sense, and then we find a warm body in a back room and of course we have to kiss it and touch it, but it doesn’t mean anything, oh I understand. We *survive*, don’t we Elim, any way we can. But we know, you and I, we know that that isn’t enough. So why don’t we end it? Right here, right now. You know I’ll do it for you. You know I want to. And you want it too. Don’t you?”

She was strong, and she was angry, but she would be no match for him. He could unbalance her with his little finger, have her on the floor, and be done with it in a second. Wouldn’t that be a mercy to her? Hadn’t she just said that it was what she wanted? If she had wanted to kill him right away, she could always have used those little knives of hers… 

He relaxed his muscles, letting her know that he wasn’t going to fight her. She searched his face, his eyes, but he was feeling nothing, so what could she find there? She took her knee off his chest, her hands off his arms. There was nothing more to say, either or both of them could have just walked away, and yet there they stood, as close as they had been that morning in the back room. Maybe even closer.

“Do it.”

Garak didn’t know why he had said that. But then, he didn’t know the reason for most of the things he had said and done in the past few hours. He could have killed her, and he had chosen not to. Now it was her turn to choose. It was only fair. 

But Ziyal was already looking through him. She smiled a distant smile that would have chilled him of he hadn’t felt so cold already.

“You are a fool. You think you know everything, but you know nothing, Elim Garak.” 

With that, she turned and left. He checked the time and saw that he would be late, but something told him Worf would wait for him. His bag was already packed, it was waiting for him in the back room. Just a few steps away…

 

“So nice of you to show up, Mr. Garak.”

“As our one and only doctor Bashir would say, keep your shirt on, Mr. Worf. Ten minutes more or less will not change the outcome of our mission.”

“That is not for you to determine. And it’s not our mission. It’s my mission. You are only an adviser. Keep that in mind.”

“Now who’s wasting time?”

“Where’s your bag?”

“No bag. I had no time to get it. It was - too far away.” 

“Use of the replicator will be rationed.” 

“I will try to restrain myself. Let’s go, Mr. Worf. I am anxious to get under way.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal recieves one letter, and writes another.

27.

My daughter: 

Did I not I tell you? When we parted, did I not tell you that I would see you soon? I told you that I would come back triumphant, and although you smiled and nodded, I could see that you didn’t believe me. I have seen that look too often, though I will not any more. I was hurt that you would look at me like that, my own daughter. But I forgive you. 

I forgive you everything: what you have been doing, what you have been thinking. Who you have been talking to. Who you chose to spend your days with. What gods you have been praying to. 

Did you think I wouldn’t know? I know. I am your father. I am the Supreme Leader of Cardassia. How could I not know? 

But I forgive you, Ziyal. 

I know you don’t feel like a true Cardassian. You don’t even know what that is. I don’t blame you, the blame for that lies with me. You see, I was thinking only of the good of Cardassia, I wanted to be a father to every Cardassian, and in doing that I neglected being a father to you. But that will change now. 

I am coming home, my daughter. You will be reunited with your brothers and sisters, you will take your place with your real family, the place that befits a daughter of Dukat. And you will learn what it means to be a true Cardassian, because that is what you are, even if you don’t want to believe it now. It is not the only blood that counts, but also the spirit. Cardassia will be a nation of spirit again, it will be strong again and I will lead, as I always knew I would, as I always knew I should. And you will be right there by my side. You and, who knows, maybe one or two of your friends who see this moment for what it is - one glorious moment in time that will not come again in a thousand years or more. 

Do not be afraid, Ziyal. I know you have a gentle spirit. You want no one to come to harm, you are attached to your friends, and I respect that. How could I want to harm your friends, knowing it would harm you? The Dominion only wants order. Cardassia only wants peace. Your friends will understand that. They will hear it in our words. They will see it by our actions. This day, my daughter, is the beginning of a new era of harmony and understanding.

You can tell your friends this, if you want. My assurances of peace will be hard to accept for them, at first, but coming from you… it will help. It could prevent unnecessary violence, the violence that you and I so abhor. We are so alike in this, as in everything else, my daughter. 

Will you help me in this, Ziyal? I know you will. Go and tell them to put down their weapons, to desist of their plans of opposition and resistance. Tell them to listen, to open their hearts and their minds. I will do the rest. 

Other than that, you don’t have to do anything. Just wait for me. I am coming. 

I am already there. 

Your devoted father,  
Dukat

 

Dear Commander Riker:

You were nice to me once, when I was feeling bad and I thought I had no friends. That’s why I am writing to you now, to tell you I am no longer feeling that way.

You see, I was wrong then, just as you were when you thought the same thing. Just like you, I found that I have a friend, more than a friend, someone who will always love me, always take care of me and never leave me. You have your captain and I - I have my father. 

I had forgotten it for a while, and that’s why I started to look for other friends. It was wrong of me to do that. I should have known that they would be weak, that they would leave me. Blood is what counts, blood and spirit. The right blood, and the right spirit, and they had neither, so how could they be my friends, how could they be anything to me?

Now I understand. It’s quite simple, really. I don’t have to look for friends anymore. My father is coming for me, and everything will be all right. I will never want for anything ever again. 

Maybe you are going to start to hear things about this station, and my father, and things he said or did. You know how people are. Don’t believe it. My father wants only peace, prosperity, justice, for Cardassia, for the quadrant, for the whole Universe. Everything he does, is for that end. Tell that to your captain. Tell that to your admirals and presidents. Tell them to just… leave us alone. 

Thank you for being kind to me. When you think of me, think of me happy and safe. I hope you are the same. I hope we all will be. 

Tora Ziyal

PS: You told me about the Frost Giants, and I didn’t understand what they were. I understand now. My father is a Frost Giant, isn’t he? He is the King of the Frost Giants, and I will be his Princess. Nothing will ever hurt me ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of part 1 of The Ruined Places. Part 2 coming soon!


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak sits in a hole, Worf is a distraction and the doctor keeps calm.

28\. 

_She is standing in the desert. There are strange stars in the sky, stars no one has ever seen. The wind is rising, whipping the sand around her body. She is naked, and it’s as if the sand is weaving a dress on her, as if she is herself is made of sand. Her hair is loose, it falls heavy and blue-black down her back, not even the wind can lift it completely._

_She is holding her hands up to the sky and stars, and on her hands there is blood. What has happened? Is she hurt? Is she surrendering to someone? Is she praying? Or maybe celebrating?_

_Then he sees the smile on her face, and he sees now: the sand and the wind will clean the blood away, and that is why she is holding her hands up. All she wants is to be clean again, and her smile says, if you join me, it can be this way for you too. He takes a step and is sure that it will be like all other dreams, where steps forward never take him where he wants to go. But this time one step does bring him closer to her, and then another, another…_

 

“Garak? Garak, you need to wake up.”

Julian was looking down on him as if he wanted to apologise for something.

“They’ve taken Worf again. We have to hurry.”

Garak sat up on the edge of the rack he was lying on, shrugging off the blanket, a shiver running down his spine. Julian meat well when he put blankets on him while he was resting, but in here the blankets only got damp and heavy, making the cold seep deeper into his bones instead of warming him. He had been so long on Deep Space 9 that he had managed to forget that there were indeed places in the Universe that were colder. Internment Camp 371 was one of them. 

Bashir had come back and was resting his hand lightly on Garak’s shoulder, looking into his face with what Garak called his “diagnostic” eyes. He was evaluating him: were there tremors, did any muscles twitch, was there an unwarranted outbreak of sweat in spite of the cold? Heavy breathing? A telling widening of his pupils? 

He returned Bashir’s look calmly, signalling: I’m fine, I’m rested. I’m ok to go in. I’m not the one you need to worry about. 

Bashir nodded. Garak got up and walked the length of the cell a few times, trying to stretch and warm up his muscles as well as he could, while the doctor worked on separating the wall panels to give him access to the tiny crawling space in which Garak would spend the next hour. That’s how much they usually got now before they sent Worf back. The Jem’Hadar liked to really work their pet Klingon, but they always stopped before finishing him off completely. After all, they wanted to enjoy him as long as possible. It wasn’t as if there was much else in the way of distraction for the troops. 

Until now, he and everyone he knew had thought of the Jem’Hadar as nothing but mindless killing machines, puppets of the Vorta and the Shapeshifters, permanently raging in K White. Who would have thought they were smart, and mindfully cruel. They were *organised*. And they wanted to learn. 

Garak stopped by the cell door and listened to the shouting, pounding and grunting reach a crescendo, then something heavy hitting the floor. He hoped it wasn’t Worf. It was too soon for him to go down. If he showed weakness, the guards would get bored, send him back and resume their regular rounds before he had time to make any progress. Locate the right relays, strip them bare and then interconnect them to form a transponder that, theoretically, would activate the runabout’s transporter and beam them all the hell out of there - it was tedious work for nimble hands and a quick mind, and of course it didn’t help that the relays were located inside a dark hole that had the exact size of a coffin. It smelled like one too. 

“All done, you’re good to go.”

Bashir’s hand on his shoulder was a nice gesture, and Garak found he was actually thankful for it. Not that it really helped, of course. As soon as he crept into his hole his chest began to tighten and he had to constantly control his breathing in order not to hyperventilate. It had happened the first few times he had got in there, Julian and the Romulan woman who also shared their cell had to pull him out kicking and screaming, and when they had finally managed to calm him down a bit, and he was lying on his rack, with his eyes closed, he could hear Tain’s scratchy voice in his head. _Why don’t you just put the boy out of his misery before he gets us all killed?_

As always, he was right. But there was no one else to do the job, so he got in the hole again and again, until he managed to stay, first for five minutes, then ten, then fifteen. He got dizzy, and the sweat was always trickling into his eyes. Every few seconds he had to shake out the trembling of his hands. Unsteady hands were not a good thing at all in here - connect two wrong relays and boom. Big boom. 

The doctor now. The doctor had steady hands. It was part of his job after all, and besides, Julian Bashir was good at practically everything, wasn’t he. Always cool and collected, always a ready smile on his lips, some small talk, a fun anecdote, always game for a beer and some darts, but letting no one come closer than at arms length. No wonder they had thought he would be easy to replace. 

But he was a doctor, and his instinct to help was genuine. Garak could see how it pained Julian to have to send him into that hole every day, knowing he would suffer; how it pained him to let Worf be led out by the guards, every day, to come back with bones cracked, bleeding, limping. If he could have taken on any of it, he would have. But he didn’t have any training at microelectronics, and although Garak was sure he’d surprise them as a fighter, the Jem’Hadar weren’t interested in him in that capacity. 

So Worf went out to meet his jailers, and Garak sat in his hole day after day, hour after hour, peeling off the covers of the relays with his teeth and fingernails, breathing, shaking out his hands. Drying the sweat on his face with his sleeve or licking it off when it came trickling down his nose. 

That wasn’t the worst part. He could deal with that. That was just his body. He could bend his body to his will. 

The shadows were bad though. Because there were shadows in that hole. Things that moved. Sometimes they took the shape of faces from the past, contorted with fear and pain at things he, Garak, had done to them. They stretched out their hands to him, opened their mouths as if to swallow him. Sometimes they were animals, animals he didn’t remember seeing or knowing, furry and with yellow eyes, growling quietly. Waiting.

He wished he could have told Tain about them because who else could the talk to about this? Bashir would just treat them as medical symptoms and get into diagnostic mode, and Worf would plain out tell him there was nothing there, and that would be that. Besides, Worf had his own problems. Tain, now Tain knew everything about shadows that moved in the dark, about faces from the past, and about animals with fangs and yellow eyes. But when Garak and Worf had arrived at the camp, Tain was already gone, his body barely alive, his spirit retreated into a world of his own. A world and a time when he was the master and ordainer of a vast web of intrigues and alliances, deceits and forgeries; when at the flick of his finger, empires fell, gods were created and the course of history was changed. Or so he believed. 

He had recognised him, though. “Elim”, he had said. And Elim could not help it, he had reached for his fathers hand, limp now, puffed and mottled from age. And for one brief second they had remained like that, in silence, Tain lying on his rack, eyes closed, Garak sitting at the edge, their hands touching. Then, Tain was struggling to sit up, to look at his visitor. Again he said “Elim, is that you?” “Yes father, it’s me. I’ve come to take you home.” It seemed to Garak that that was what one said in these situations, although they had never had a home, and they both knew Tain wasn’t going anywhere. 

Tain shook off Garak’s hand, let himself sink back onto the rack and said, “Take this boy away. What use do I have for him?”

Garak sat with him until the end. He only left him once, when they were all taken out of their cells for the announcement of the incorporation of Cardassia into the Dominion. All the Cardassian prisoners were freed and sent home - except for Garak. Of course. He asked the other Cardassians if they would take Tain with them, but they just shrugged their shoulders. They didn’t know who he was, for them it was just an old dying man; a burden. They said: “He’s no longer useful, let him die. Do it for him.” It was the Cardassian way. 

But Garak didn’t do it. He would have if Tain had asked him to - but it was too high an honour for Enabran Tain to bestow on his bastard son, or any of the pitiful creatures that surrounded him. He would rather die from hunger and cold, coughing and spitting and soiling himself. Before the end, Tain imagined it was Mila holding his hand, and he smiled, and said some tender words, words meant just for the two of them, and Garak wished he wasn’t sitting there. Why had it been so important? Why had he left behind - no, not just left behind, *destroyed* - why had he destroyed the first chance of hope and happiness that had been offered to him in this life, to go seek out this - this old sack of bones and skin who was only capable of showing him affection when he thought he was someone else? 

_You had to see me die, of course. Stupid boy. Nothing is more important than seeing me die. And nothing is more important than being the son I made you._

 

When the guards came and took the body away, Julian sat with him and told him about the plan. Tain had said he could do it, but it was obvious that he was too sick - now that Garak was here, not that he *approved* of that, but as he was, did he think he could possibly…? 

 

Yes. He could. He didn’t tell the doctor about his little - problem with closed dark spaces. He thought he could manage. He thought, absurdly, as such thoughts are, that now that Tain was dead, there would be no problem. 

Well, the doctor was a professional, and instead of asking why and how, he gave him pointers about the right way to breathe in there, and silly little strings of words to repeat in his mind that proved surprisingly helpful. “I am doing good work. This is work I can do. I am helping myself and I am helping my friends.” Things like that. To himself he added another one: “There is a young lady who is counting on you.” It wasn’t true, of course, because hadn’t he made it very clear to her that she could *not* count on him? Still, it felt good to think it. It helped.

In the intervals, when it was Worf lying on his bench, and the air was quivering from the screams of pain and shame he would never let them hear, with the guards walking past their cell door every five minutes, and the shadows gathering their strength in the hole, Bashir and Garak talked about the station. Had anyone noticed he was supplanted? Had they noticed right away? What plans did they have, what would the Federation do? How could they defend DS9, and if they couldn’t, what then, with the Dominion sending ships by the thousand through the wormhole? They didn’t talk to Worf about it, because he worried. Bashir and Garak, they didn’t worry. 

Julian asked about Ziyal once, and Garak felt like just sitting down on the floor and crying. Or maybe crawling back into the hole and let the shadoes have him. But he didn’t. Bashir noticed, of course, the way he noticed everything, but he just said “I hope she will be all right”, and Garak thought about how it would feel to rip the good doctor’s big and shining eyes out of their sockets. “I’m sure she will”, he said, and closed his eyes. Since he’d had that dream, whenever he closed his eyes he could see her, standing in the desert, and the more he saw her, the less he remembered it had been a dream. And when he finally did creep back into the hole, he imagined that the blood on her hands came from killing the animals in there. The blood on Ziyal’s hands was the blood of shadows.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Picard and Commander Riker have a conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Picard and Riker you meet here are not identical with the ones in @miloowen's fantastic "A Million Sherds". But they would not be they way they are if Sherds hadn't been written. So many thanks go to her.

29.

“Deep Space 9.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You want special leave to go to Deep Space 9, right now.”

“I want… I would like that, yes sir.”

“You are aware that Deep Space 9 is days, possibly hours, from being re-taken by Cardassian forces.”

“I only need two days, three at the most.” 

“Aha. So all you want are two or three days personal leave.”

“Yes, sir.”

Picard just looked at him. He didn’t even have to raise an eyebrow. Riker thought of apologising and leaving right then and there, before he made any more of a fool of himself than he already had. But then he thought of Ziyal’s letter. _My father is coming for me, and everything will be all right. I will never want for anything ever again._

“There’s someone there who needs my help.”

“I see.”

It was disturbing, Picard’s seeming lack of reaction during a certain type of conversations. Even Will Riker, who had worked closely with him for many years, who had reason to consider him a friend, found himself irritated by it even now. Riker knew Picard well enough to know he had a very strong and definite opinion about his request to go to Deep Space 9. Why didn’t he just say it? _Have you gone crazy? It’s madness, it’s unacceptable. Get out of here._

But that was just it: Jean-Luc Picard was the kind of person who liked to get all the facts first. He got the information, processed it, and then came to a decision. Which, on the other hand, was exactly why his decisions where so hard to argue with. They were - meditated. Picard also knew that Will Riker could have a volatile temper, especially where personal matters were concerned, and he probably wasn’t interested in a shouting match with his First.

“You do of course realise that at the same moment Deep Space 9 is re-taken, the Federation will have no choice but declare war on the Dominion. If the Dominion doesn’t declare war first. As we speak, strategic projections are being drafted for that event. The projections, this much I can tell you, are not good.” 

“Yes, captain. I know all that. And I want you to know that you can count on me, one hundred percent.”

“I don’t see how that will be of any help if war breaks out and the Enterprise finds itself without a First Officer.” 

“Oh come on, captain…”

“Be very careful with what you say now, commander. By any standard, not just any Starfleet standard but any standard of *sanity*, I should have stopped listening and sent you out of the room without further comment the moment you said ‘leave’ and ‘Deep Space 9’. On the other hand, you did come here and you did say it. Which tells me two things: first, that you want to be as honest as you can, and second, that this is important to you. I want to work this out with you, but we’re walking a very fine line here.”

“I understand. I’m sorry, I…”

Just as it had tightened a minute before, now Picard’s face relaxed again, without perceptibly moving a single muscle. It was another one of those slightly unsettling things he did that left one feeling that something more significant had happened after having even the simplest of conversations. Not that this was a simple conversation. 

“So this someone that needs your help - can you tell me anything more about them? What kind of trouble they are in? Why they need you specifically? Why does it have to be right now?”

Vagueness was not something Picard tolerated very well, the better strategy with him was to be straightforward and specific. On the other hand, being specific in this case meant telling him that he wanted to travel to what was right now very likely the most volatile place in the whole quadrant just to - what? To hold a young girl’s hand and remind her how to breathe? To tell her that she was something other than what her father told her and her circumstances made her, and hope that she wasn’t too far lost to listen to him? Not to mention that this young girl - specifically - happened to be the daughter of the same man who very soon would lead the war against the Federation. So, maybe being specific was not such a good idea in this case. 

Lying to Picard, though, or withholding important information - that was something Riker just could’t do. Not as a First Officer, and not as… well, whatever they were when they were not Captain Picard and Commander Riker. 

“The reason she needs me, or I believe she needs me, is because she has the same kind of - problem I used to have. Or, similar. She has suffered abuse at a young age. She didn’t have a proper childhood. And her father is a psychopath. I just - I believe there is no other help available to her right now.”

“I see.”

“Her name is Tora Ziyal. She is Gul Dukat’s daughter. Sir.”

Now Picard *did* have a reaction. He stood up (stood, not jumped) and walked once across the room, then back. That was as much pacing as Riker had ever seen him do. He stopped a couple of times, as if to say something, paced some more, than finally sat down. Riker watched him and tried to breathe as evenly as possible. 

“How do you even know this woman? When did you meet her?”

“I met her last time I was on Deep Space 9. Major Kira introduced us. You see, major Kira was there when Dukat went to this planet to look for Ziyal because… When the occupation ended, Ziyal’s mother… The thing is, it’s kind of a long story, sir.”

Picard’s face was again unreadable. He leaned back into his chair and said: “I’m listening.” 

So Riker told the story, what else could he do? Wile he was telling it, he realised that it sounded like a bad romance novel: the powerful evil man, the beautiful concubine, the abandoned daughter who starts to hear voices… How could he make the captain see that Ziyal was a real person, a desperate person, as desperate as Picard had seen him? How could he explain what he had seen in her eyes that day, when they had sat down in a corridor and she said she wanted to turn into a stone? When he had told her about the Frost Giants. 

“I know how it sounds, sir, but it’s not…” 

He took a deep breath. Picard had always been better at understanding than he was at explaining.

“Captain. I know this is pretty much impossible, and I know it could and probably will go wrong in so many ways. All I can say is that I need to do this. I have to go there, and I have to try to help her, if I can. I think that sometimes, life makes us responsible for someone, without asking, without any explanations. It’s like that with Ziyal. I can’t tell you why, but in a way, I know I’m responsible for her.”

Picard closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, it was as if he was stretching a hand out across to Riker with his eyes. With his eyes, Riker took his captain’s hand. 

“I do know what it’s like, Will. To meet someone who is lost, and to know you have to protect them, even though you know nothing else about them.”

They held the look they shared for a few more seconds. Then the captain straightened behind his desk. 

“Commander Riker, your request is denied.”

Breathe, Will, just breathe, Riker told himself. Of course he had to deny it. Any request for personal leave would have to be denied right now, much more so a request as ridiculous as his. But if he knew it, why had he told the captain in the first place? 

“For now.”

“… Sir?”

“Your request is denied for now. As long as the situation is as unstable as this, I need you here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But I will not forget what you told me today, Will. And if I can see any way to send to safely to Deep Space 9, as soon as possible, I will do it. It’s a promise. But only if you promise in return that you won’t go and do something - rash. Something that you will regret.” 

He breathed, then. Maybe, Riker thought, *this* was why he’d had this conversation in the first place. Just for the captain to hear. Just to see if he would understand. Just to be sure he wasn’t going crazy. 

“When have you ever known me to just go ahead and do foolish things, sir?”

Riker could see a grin somewhere trying to creep on his captain’s face. But he knew he wasn’t going to see it today. Picard got up from his chair, signalling that the conversation was over. Riker got up too.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You are a good man, Will. Remember that.”

“I will, sir. And so are you.”

And it didn’t seem like a strange thing to say to one’s captain. Not like a strange thing at all.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Dukat's arrival on DS9 is imminent, Kira is nervous, and Ziyal is very calm.

30\. 

It seemed like everyone had been running for days. There seemed to be no time anymore to sit down for a cup of coffee or a beer and a chat, play a game of darts, eat lunch even or sleep for more than three hours in a row. Deep Space 9 had turned into an anthill, and there was a bad boy poking at it with a stick, making all the ants frantic with headless activity and panic. The boy’s name was Dukat, and he was on his way. 

There was only one question now. People asked each other when they met on the promenade, in the queue for the replimat, in whispers in corners or shouting across corridors and levels, in encrypted messages from console to console, from quarters to quarters. Maintenance crews, dabo girls, waiters at Quark’s, at the Bajoran restaurant, at the Klingon tavern, technicians, librarians, Vedeks, teachers, the woman who owned the Jumja-stick stand and the man who did magic tricks in exchange for food - they all just wanted to know one thing: are you staying, or are you leaving?

Dukat’s message from Cardassia said the Dominion wanted only peace, order, justice, and that no one would be harmed - no one who cooperated, of course. How many times had the people here heard those exact same words? They knew the price you pay for cooperation. And yet, hadn’t they built a life on the station, wasn’t it their home, their livelihood? They were weary of having to start over, burn down their lives and be reborn from the ashes, again and again. Besides, Bajor had signed a pact of non-aggression with the Dominion, like so many other small planets. So technically it was not an invasion, not an occupation, like it had been before. It was just - another set of rules to live by, and another set of rulers. Would their lives really change so much? Wasn’t it best to just stay, wait and see?

Other’s said there would be a war, as sure as the Prophets lived. Do you want to be stuck on a space station near a wormhole, they said, when all the warships start coming through, right here, where the worst battles are going to be fought? They said, we can rebuild the resistance. If there’s anything we’ve learned during these last years, hasn’t it been to resist? Cardassians, Shapeshifters, Vorta, what does it matter? In the end, we’ll wear them out, we always do. 

And so the talk went, back and forth, bags were packed in a hurry and unpacked an hour later, tearful goodbyes were said, transports left the docking bays and then circles the station for hours, until Kira threatened to shoot them out of the way if they didn’t re-dock or leave immediately. And it was not an empty threat. Oh no. Not from Kira. 

When residents and personell were not talking about leaving or staying, they were asking “what will Sisko do?” There were stories of great battles, secret weapons, whole armies that would shoot out of the wormhole any second now. Someone who heard it from someone who worked with someone who had a drink with someone who was actually there said that that the word was given out to “hold the station to the last man, no matter the cost”. Every day there was a rumour, often several times, that Sisko was about to give a speech somewhere on the station, and people would start to gather excitedly in front of the Bajoran temple or the turbolift shaft that leads to ops, until Odo came along and told them that they should all go home, because nothing was going to happen. 

Which was exactly the result of all the running and shouting and whispering and fearing and speculating: nothing. Nothing at all. So much nothing that Kira could feel it eating a hole inside her, so much nothing that it made her scream, sometimes for minutes, when she came home to her quarters after another double or triple shift. Oh, she was doing her part, sitting in meetings, memorising information, planning, strategising, brainstorming. She was smiling and being reassuring. But in the end it came down to this: while Sisko and everyone in Starfleet, and many of her colleagues in the Bajorna militia too, would leave the station - no, it would not be held to the last man, but it would be retaken, oh it would - and join the war as soon as it started, Kira, Odo and a handful of others would stay on the station and do - nothing. Nothing but watch and wait. Nothing except - serve Dukat. 

_I told you we would be together. You said you didn’t believe me, but you wanted it too. You know you did._

His voice was with her all the time now. She saw his face in the mirror, she felt his hands when she was standing in the shower, and she dreamt of him every night. Dreams from which Kira awakened flushed and hot, her heart being fast, the blankets wet. Although she was constantly afraid now, these were not nightmares. Oh no. She knew these dreams, she had lived with them for a long time. But there was a difference now. 

Now he was coming. 

 

“Don’t you think you should start packing?”

“Packing? What do you mean, packing? To go where?”

Kira had never seen Ziyal’s quarters so neat and clean. Usually there were books lying on the table and on the floor, blankets and discarded clothes on the sofa, a shoe on top of a half-finished plate of spaghetti or ice-cream or both. When it got really bad, Ziyal would spend a couple of hours under a blanket trying to forget the mess she created, and after that she would speed through it all, leaving the room spotless - for about three minutes. She used to laugh about it, but Kira could tell the cycle made her anxious for some reason.

Ziyal was sitting on the sofa, wearing a grey dress, her hair made up in a traditional bun that didn’t flatter her face. All the books were neatly arranged on the shelves, the low table in front of the sofa was scrubbed clean, a vase of white lilies on it. Nothing else. If Ziyal hadn’t been there, it would have been hard to believe anyone actually lived there. 

“Everyone is leaving the station.”

“Not everyone.”

“Everyone who doesn’t need to stay, or has nowhere else to go.”

“I have nowhere else to go.”

“That is not true, Ziyal. You could go back to the University on Bajor. You have friends there, right?”

Kira knew something had happened at the University, there had been something about a date - did she still remember? Was there someone waiting for her there? She waited for something in Ziyal’s eyes, the spark of a memory, a moment of joy, or maybe shame, or anger. There was nothing. 

“I have friends here, too.”

“Yes, but everything will be different now…”

“That doesn’t mean it will be bad, does it?”

Everything that Ziyal said made sense, and to anyone it would have seemed as if they were having a sensible and friendly conversation. But suddenly Kira felt as if she was talking to no one; as if she was standing in an empty room talking to herself, or a mirror, or a stone. She walked over to the sofa and sat beside Ziyal, taking her hands in hers. Ziyal’s smile never wavered. It had been the same since Kira walked into the room. 

“Ziyal. You know what I’m talking about. Your father is coming here. There’s going to be a war, but no one knows what’s going to happen. This is not a good time for you to be here. If you don’t want to go to Bajor I’m sure we could arrange for you to go somewhere else… You could go to Earth! I’m sure Commander Sisko could find a place for you there. Wouldn’t you like to see earth?”

There might have been something in Ziyal’s eyes for a split second then, but it was gone so fast that Kira wasn’t sure she had seen it. The smile settled even more firmly on Ziyal’s mouth, as did the cloud over her eyes that revealed nothing. 

“Maybe some day. But right now what I would like best is to stay here.”

“But there might be fighting! There are things that happen when there’s war that… You might see things that… You really, really shouldn’t be here.”

Kira could feel her voice becoming shrill. What she wanted was to just yank the girl by the arm, out of the room and into the next transport, no matter where to. Away. Far away. Ziyal could not be on the station when Dukat arrived. She just could not. Because if she was, she would see. 

“My father will protect me. He will take care of me.”

“Ziyal, your father just signed a treaty that makes Cardassia part of the Dominion. Do you know what the Dominion is?”

“Yes. They are Odo’s people.”

“Odo is not part of the Dominion!” Kira was grateful for a feeling of righteous anger that had nothing to do with Dukat or Ziyal or any of that. Odo was the one thing in her life that was right and good, she would let no one touch that, much less this - impertinent girl. 

“My father doesn’t want to fight. He wants peace, and order, and justice, and so do the Dominion.”

Very slowly, Kira got up from the sofa and started backing away from it. Ziyal’s smiling, clouded gaze followed her. 

“He is a good man, Nerys. A great man. He will save us all. You will see. Soon, you will be as happy to have him here as I am.”

There was nothing in Ziyal’s eyes, and yet Kira couldn’t stop staring at them. She walked out of the room backwards, as if she was in the presence of royalty. As the doors were finally closing, she heard Ziyal say: “You’re waiting for him too, aren’t you? You want him here as much as I do…” 

But she couldn’t have said that, could she, and so Kira chose to believe it had never happened. And as she had chosen that, she could also choose not to feel what she feared she would feel. As she had chosen to be weak, once, now she would choose to be strong. Kira knew better than anyone what she needed to be strong: all she needed was hate. And hate was something she was extremely good at.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak gets out of his hole, and dreams of pasta. Then he gets in again, and they all get out.

31.

In and out, in and out, day after day: Garak in and out of his hole, Worf in and out of the ring. Garak didn’t even bother to hide the shaking of his hands anymore, and sometimes he would cry, with Julian holding him and telling him everything would be all right. Worf never cried, of course, and every time they called him back to another fight, he went out saying “today is a good day to die”. But Garak had seen him hold his head in despair, and whisper Jadzia’s name when he thought no one could hear him. 

He wanted to go to him and tell him not to worry, he would be done very soon, he would finally connect all the relays, the communication with the runabout’s transporter would be established, and they would all be out of there - even the silent Romulan woman who helped them wherever she could but still refused to give her name or even speak, except to warn them about guards approaching. The guards kept winking and giving them knowing looks, supposing they were all taking turns with her. She protected them with her silence and they gave her extra rations and took care that no one did even think of taking a turn with her. It was a situation that suited all. 

A very suitable situation, yes, except, of course, that they were prisoners and alive only because their jailers still thought they might provide some entertainment. And because the man who might command the jailers to end all of their lives was probably engaged elsewhere. If they hadn’t managed to get out of there once Dukat was firmly established on Deep Space 9… 

No, they would get there before him; we’ll make it, we have to, they kept reassuring each other. Worf needed to see Jadzia and find a way tell her how he felt - he hadn’t said it in so many words, but he didn’t need to. After so many days together in that cell, Garak and Julian could read even Worf, and Worf didn’t mind being read. Julian needed to be there, with his comrades, his friends, doing his job, his duty. “I have nothing else”, he said, and Worf and Garak nodded. Then they looked at Garak, waiting for him to say why he needed to get out of there, go back to Deep Space 9, and he said: “There’s a young lady there…” 

He wanted to add “who is counting on me”, like he said to himself when he was working in his hole, but that wouldn’t have been true, would it? She was not counting on him, she couldn’t. Because he had told her… what exactly? How had he put it? 

“A miscalculation.” That was what he’d said to her. Their friendship, their closeness, the moments they had shared. Ziyal in her new dress, turning to him in the back-room of his shop, her braid over her shoulder. Music and books and holding her, shivering in her nightdress. A miscalculation. We are not friends, he had told her. It had come easily, of course it had, after a lifetime of lies. And she, she had walked out proud. But he had seen something break in her eyes. 

So he didn’t say “she’s counting on me”. Instead he said: “I would like to see her again. I would like to - talk to her. We didn’t part well.” And Worf and Julian nodded, as if they knew exactly what he was talking about. Well, Julian did, anyway, and what he didn’t know he could read in Garak’s hesitation, the flitting about of his eyes that he wasn’t even bothering to conceal. Garak figured that after crying and screaming and howling in another man’s arms, who then used his own sleeve to wipe off your snot and proceeded to calm you with nursery rhymes, there wasn’t much point in trying to maintain an attitude of dignified distance and cool mystery. As for Worf, he didn’t need to know. Something told Garak that he knew what it was to see a man break, and that he never would call him a green-blooded Romulan coward again. 

And then, one day, a mere five minutes after they had taken Worf, who at this point was barely able to walk, Garak finally held the final two relays in his hands. Adjust a few settings, then connect them, and be transported directly to the runabout, which was still sitting in the camp’s docking bay, as many of their fellow prisoners and even the guards assured them. The guards like to tease them with it, with how it was sitting there, so close, and yet they had no way of getting to it.

Garak had known all along it would be on this day, of course, but he hadn’t said anything. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because if Worf knew for sure he was his fighting his final fight he would throw himself in it with too much energy and provoke them into killing him after all. Maybe because he didn’t want to bring up his comrade’s hopes for nothing. What right had he to assume this would work? Hadn’t he been beside himself with raw fear most of the time he had spent working in there, his hands shaking uncontrollably, fighting off visions of things with bloody teeth? What if the connection worked, but whoever was holding the relays was transported to the surface to the asteroid instead of the runabout? What if he hadn’t disabled all the security levels and their molecules were scattered forever against some firewall? What if…?

He crept out of the hole and put the panels back in front of it quietly. The Romulan woman was sleeping and Julian was at the door following the noises of the fight and looking out for guards. Instead of running to him and telling him that it was done, that they should start preparing for their escape immediately, Garak sat on his rack and just looked at the doctor for a while. Julian Bashir had always been rather on the skinny side, but after weeks of soups that were basically dirty dishwater and bread that was squirming with maggots, his bones were sticking out of his skin everywhere; it was painful to see. 

Garak thought how good it would be to see the doctor sit down to one of those huge steaming plates of pasta he loved so much. And Ziyal, Ziyal too. And Worf. He probably didn’t eat pasta, but surely there was something he enjoyed, something half-alive that he was secretly dreaming of… Suddenly, he could imagine nothing better or more satisfying than to watch his friends eat enormous quantities of food. Maybe he would even cook for them, why not. Then he thought that by the time they were back on the station they would probably be at war and no one would be in the mood for a cook-out. *If* they even reached the station. Who knew when and how and how much they would be able to eat… 

_You will miss them. You will miss this cell, this miserable damp cold cell, the rotten food, even the long hours in that damn hole._

It was Tain’s voice, dripping with contempt as usual, but Garak smiled, because he was dead, and because he was right too. He was going to miss this place. It had been a simple life, with simple goals: stay alive; protect his comrades; escape. When had life ever been this simple for Elim Garak? When had he ever thought of someone as a comrade, a friend, without even a touch of irony? When had he ever been respected before, for doing something that was unmistakably good? 

“Garak? What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

Julian had seen him. Garak smiled.

“Nothing is wrong, and I am indeed all right.”

“Then what- Wait a minute, you mean… you’re done? It’s finished?”

“It is.”

“Then we can get out of here?”

“Shhh. Yes, we can get out of here. That is, if you manage not to alert every single guard to our plan before we get a chance to put it into action.”

“But that’s… that’s…” Julian was clearly feeling the need to mark the moment in some significant way. He walked over to Garak and put a hand on his shoulder, but before he could open his mouth for what Garak could only suppose would have been a highly embarrassing and utterly unnecessary speech, he said: 

“I’ll go first. If I haven’t transported you or contacted you in any way after five minutes, you’ll have to assume it didn’t work.” 

“Wait a minute, don’t you think we should maybe talk this through with a little more detail? What if it doesn’t work? Should we just give you up for dead?”

“Yes, that is exactly what you should do. Also, you should start working on an alternative plan, but this time, I’m afraid one of you might have to sacrificed.” 

“Apart from you, you mean. Listen, I really think we should-“

“There is no time for that, and you know it. Right now, the only thing you need to concern yourself with is making sure that Worf will make it through the next five minutes.”

Garak nodded towards the door, where the jeering and shouting was getting louder. A few seconds later, Worf was kicked inside and fell to his knees. Bashir rushed towards him and helped him onto one of the racks. Garak turned toward the Romunlan woman and found her awake, sitting up and looking at him intently. She had quite a striking face, delicate somehow. He nodded to her, and she nodded back. Not for the first time Garak wondered who she was and why she was here. He’d probably never know, because even though they were taking her with them, he suspected she would not be any more willing to reveal details about herself on a Starfleet runabout in Federation space. He discovered a tinge of regret in his feelings. Going through life untouched by anything that didn’t involve his personal interest didn’t seem quite as - satisfying anymore. 

“If we’re doing this, I suggest we do it now. They broke another rib today and his lung is punctured, again. If there ever was a good moment to get to the runabout’s medical kit, it’s now.”

“Understood. Help me with this.”

Garak and Julian began to move away the panels again, and Garak crept into his hole for the last time. Maybe his time here had brought him growth, understanding. Maybe even redemption. Maybe it had been a turning point; he would certainly never forget it. Be that as it may, *this* he certainly was not going to miss. 

“Oh man, it stinks in here. It’s like- like rotting eggs or something.”

Julian was peeking in, trying to catch a glimpse of what Garak was doing. 

“You don’t say.”

They grinned at each other. Julian started to crawl out, then hesitated, turned back. 

“Ah. Yes. How do you know I won’t transport out and leave you all here to rot? I’m afraid that is a distinct possibility.”

Julian looked genuinely surprised. 

“You know, Garak? That hadn’t even occurred to me.”

“How strange.”

“No, I don’t think that is strange at all.”

To which Garak could only manage to reply with a weak “thank you”. He waited until Julian was out of the hole, checked the relays, checked them again, and then made the final connection. As he felt the tingling sensation of the transport, as the small dark space began to vanish from his sight, Garak thought: it was good. All of it. If this is where it ends, it’s a good place to end.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dukat comes to the station. Ziyal enjoys her new position.

32.

He told her every day: how much he loved her, how happy he was that they could finally be together, share their lives as they were meant to. And it was impossible not to believe him. The light in his eyes was true, his smile so warm, the touch of his hand on her cheek was always gentle. 

It was easy, too, so much easier than she had anticipated. To be his daughter. She had dreaded it while she was waiting for him, though she had told no one. 

When she was little, he had whirled her through the air in his arms, making her scream with fear and laughter. He had spoken to her mother, sometimes gently, sometimes harshly, and Ziyal never understood why it was one way or the other. They were always waiting for him, when she was little. Then he had stopped coming, he had disappeared, and when she had seen him again, he wanted to kill her. But he didn’t. And now she would see him every day, talk to him every day? How would it be? To be the daughter of the Great Man in the eyes of the world? 

Kira had come to see her, then Sisko, to tell her they were leaving, and she should leave too - but Ziyal just shook her head no, and smiled, and thought: will he like my dresses? My hair? My shoes? Would he look down on her because she had associated, built friendships with Terrans, Bajorans - Garak? He had written to her that he understood, that all was forgiven, but how would it be when he actually saw her?

When he had finally arrived, and while she was sitting in her room, waiting, she had expected to hear screams, phaser-shots, boots running past her door. But there was only silence for a very long while, and then the door opened and there he stood. He looked at her, smiled his wonderful smile, ran to her, took her in his arms, and whispered in her ear: “You and I, we are going to be a very good team.”

And so they were. They had breakfast together every day, and dinner every other day, and talked about what was happening on the station: shopkeeper’s complaints, shipments, docking procedures, holodeck breakdowns, drunken altercations at Quark’s. He asked her for advice, and always thanked her for helping him see the bigger picture. “No one knows this, Ziyal, but the reason this station is running so smoothly, the reason we are all working so well together - it’s you, Ziyal.”

Or course, part of Ziyal knew that wasn’t true. The reason the station was running so smoothly was mostly fear of the Dominion, fear of Dukat and - Kira. Kira who nodded icily at Dukat whenever she saw him and who made a point of only talking to him when it was strictly necessary. Kira whose scent Ziyal caught sometimes when she walked into her father’s quarters early in the morning. Since Sisko had left, everyone looked to Kira, and Kira was functioning impeccably, so everyone else was functioning impeccably too. Or as close to their idea of impeccable as they could manage. 

It was not Ziyal and Dukat who were such a good team, it was Dukat and Kira. But Ziyal wasn’t talking to the part of her who knew all that. The Ziyal who knew that (didn’t she have some other name, once, a familiar name, a familiar voice?) was the Ziyal who needed to be alert, to defend herself, a Ziyal surrounded by enemies, people who meant her harm; that Ziyal was someone who didn’t know who she was or where she belonged. Who could want to hurt her now, now that she was protected by Dukat? Who could doubt who she was? She was Dukat’s daughter. 

When she wasn’t with with her father or working for him, maybe rewriting a communication so it sounded friendlier, not so demanding, having care that his things, books, clothes, were right the way he wanted them, the way his aide, Damar, could never do it, Ziyal prepared for the time when the war would be over and they would go to live on Cardassia. She couldn’t wait to see the majestic mountains, the vast plains, the huge cities her father had told her about, teeming with life, with culture, with opportunities. Life there would be as quiet or as exciting as she wanted it to be, Dukat told her; she could be a student, a teacher, a lawyer, a poet, a dancer, she could be whatever and whoever she wanted to be, because she would be Dukat’s daughter, and that meant she could be anything, anything at all. 

Her days were easy, then, easy like those dreams where the dreamer never has to decide anything, doesn’t even have to move, where she just glides from object to object, from feeling to feeling, and the dream unfolds around her, carrying her. There was no more dizziness, her stomach never hurt anymore, no nausea. She smiled all the time and why would she not? She was happy. She needed nothing. 

The nights were not so good. She had dreams at night, and those were not gentle. She saw Garak, and sometimes Julian too, sitting in her living room. She asked them what they were talking about, because she couldn’t hear them, and she wanted to be a part of their conversation, listen to their voices, laugh with them; and when they turned to her, their faces were covered in blood, and black holes were gaping where their eyes had been. Other times she saw herself and Garak in his shop, that day before he had left. She was wearing the dress he had made for her, and he looked at her again, the way he had then, and said “do it”, and she stepped forward, put her hands on his face, and then broke his neck. There was no sound, just a small tug beneath her fingers, something giving way, and the expression in his eyes didn’t change at all. That’s when she realised that Garak had been dead all this time, and Ziyal woke up screaming - like every night. 

“He lived like a traitor, and he died like a traitor.” That’s what her father had told her. Ziyal thought: where did he die? How? Where is he now? It didn’t *feel* like he was dead, but that was absurd, of course, a feeling couldn’t tell you if a person was alive or dead. So she didn’t say anything. If her father told her that Garak was dead, that it must be true. And not only her father, everyone had always said that Garak was a traitor, so that must be true too. 

She had tried to talk to Kira about it once, ask her what she knew. Kira had shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t care if Garak was dead or alive. He was not important. Then Ziyal thought about Odo. If anyone could find out what had really happened, if anyone could find out the truth for her and tell her, it was Odo. But she didn’t say anything to him. Lately he looked strangely at her, as if he knew something about herself that she didn’t, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all. 

No one should look like that at Dukat’s daughter.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak, Bashir and Worf reach Deep Space 9 with a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I’m being unforgivably vague or downright wrong about things like distances, technical details of the runabout, communications, Starfleet regulations, the strategic situation of the Alpha Quadrant in the historical moment the story is set in, Romulan society, and a long etcetera. Also, the mining of the wormhole is not exactly according to canon here. Although I am posting this publicly, it is still very much a work in progress. Right now, with the help of my fantastic support on- and offline, I am still building characters and plot, and therefore I reserve the right to postpone detailed research until such a time when I feel it is necessary and I can plunge into it without permanently damaging the writing process. I do very much hope you can still enjoy the story for what it is and you will continue to offer your constructive opinion.

33\. 

“War. War. War.”

As soon as they came out on the other side of the wormhole, into the Alpha Quadrant, the little runabout’s communications relays were flooded. Hundreds of thousands, millions of messages were being transmitted throughout the quadrant every minute, every second. And they all said the same thing, the same words repeated over and over again: “war”; “Dominion”; “Deep Space 9”; “Dukat”.

“War. War. War.”

 

The plan was to get to Deep Space 9 and discreetly drop Julian off, under the assumption that his Changeling double would - hopefully - have been neutralised by now, following Garak’s hint before he left for the Gamma Quadrant. Julian would then assess the strategic situation and be informed of Sisko’s plans: would he stand battle when Dukat came to the station? Julian, and Worf too, believed it was much more likely he would leave before Dukat got there, leaving behind some Bajoran personnel of his confidence, possibly even Kira, Julian believed. Worf said: “Kira and Dukat? Not a good combination, I think.” Julian just looked at Garak and replied: “You might be surprised…” Garak said nothing. It was not Dukat’s relationship with Kira he was worried about. 

Kira or not, Sisko would not leave Deep Space 9 without a strategy, they all agreed on that. So Julian would find out what the strategy was and where Sisko needed him and Worf. The important thing was that as few people as possible should know about their escape from the camp, in case it should be necessary for Bashir and Worf to staying missing, or even be dead for a while. Garak knew from experience how useful being dead could be. 

As soon as Julian reported back, Garak would accompany the Romulan to a rendezvous point where she would meet - well, she wouldn’t say who she was meeting. “Someone will be there”, was all she said. Of course, she insisted that she didn’t need anyone to get there. 

“Just get me a transport, I’ll do the rest.” 

“That’s all very fine, but what if you run into trouble?”

“That is not your concern. And I won’t.”

“That’s what we all said not so long ago, and yet we ended up sharing a lovely cell in a Dominion internment camp. Of which there will be many more in this quadrant, very soon.”

“I will not put my foot in a Dominion internment camp again in my lifetime, Mr. Garak, I can assure you.”

Her face was still as a Vulcan’s as she said it, but the tension of her body revealed her emotions. Garak thought again how she must be someone used to command. Proud, even. An aristocrat maybe? But would a Romulan aristocrat have adapted so smoothly to life in the camp, eaten the same nauseating soup day after day, endured cold and damp, let the eyes and hands of guards and fellow prisoners rest on her body without so much as a twitch of her brow? 

“I believe you. But I still would like to make sure. It’s the least I can do. After all, I owe you my life. We all do.”

“You owe me nothing.”

“Madam, I have lived a long time believing I owed nothing to anyone, and never could. It did not serve me well. I will insist on my debt, even if you refuse to acknowledge it. And I will see you delivered safely to your people, even if I have to bind and gag you to do it.”

“He would, you know. Bind and gag you. And he’d enjoy it too.”

Garak could see how Julian was barely repressing a grin. Julian had been grinning a lot since they made their escape from Internment Camp 371. 

“I believe he would. You may travel with me, Mr. Garak, if that is your wish. And I will be grateful. But you must know that it will most likely put you in danger. Unnecessary danger.” 

“These are dangerous times.”

She gave him another of her piercing long looks with those unsettling eyes, and suddenly Garak realised *why* they were so unsettling. They were blue, as ice-blue as his own. He had never seen a Romulan with blue eyes. Yes, he was looking forward to trying to get her to share her story, or at least her name, on their trip together. It was unlikely she would, but one must, nevertheless, not neglect one’s skills. 

“And what then?”

Garak knew why Julian asked that question, and what he was going to say next: come with us. We could use you. You will be safe with us. What other options do you have? 

Indeed, the options were not many and not at all comfortable. Anywhere in Dukat’s sphere of influence he would be hunted down, tortured, first for information, then for pleasure, and finally discarded. And was there any place, right now, that Dukat’s influence didn’t extend to? Everywhere the Dominion was, there Dukat was as well. 

The obvious alternative was the Federation, of course. Did they need tailors on Earth, on Betazed, on Andoria? Whatever he did, or whoever he chose to be, he could not disappear there either: he would always be an object of attention, of subtle investigation. Julian was right, of course: Garak’s best option was to offer his services to Starfleet, wait out the war with them, do what he did best - observe, evaluate, and seize his chance at the right moment. There were always opportunities, weren’t there, for someone like him. Unattached, unencumbered by possessions, loyalties… relationships. 

“It depends”, Garak said. Julian didn’t ask on what, but for some reason Garak felt compelled to continue anyway. 

“If you see her… if you see Ziyal… tell her…”

Julian waited patiently for Garak to finish the sentence, not knowing about the stone in Garak’s throat that made it impossible for him to speak. Finally he smiled and said: “Don’t worry. You’ll think of something. Or better yet, you’ll tell her yourself.” 

_You are a fool. You think you know everything, but you know nothing, Elim Garak._

How right she was, Garak thought, looking down on the floor, trying to breathe around that stone that still seemed lodged somewhere between his lungs and his mouth. How right she was about so many things. How much she had taught him, and all the time both of them believing it was him teaching her. 

He didn’t know if he could find the right words. He didn’t know if he would see her again, or if she would want to see him. He didn’t know what he would do half an hour from now, a day from now, he didn’t know how or what his life would be. And somewhere a small part of him was whispering that maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. But Garak had learned to mistrust whispering voices. Especially when they came from within. 

 

Get to the station, contact Sisko. Drop off Mysterious Romulan, get a mission with Starfleet. Defeat Dukat, defeat the Dominion. Live happily ever after. That had been the plan, and it had seemed simple and completely realistic for all of twelve minutes. Until, of course, they got close enough to Deep Space 9 to sort through the communications chatter and realise that there would be no contact. Sisko was gone, Starfleet was gone. Dukat was on the station, Dukat was everywhere, and if they continued in the direction of DS9, if they stayed in the area, it was a matter of minutes before the runabout was detected and intercepted. 

The hope of seeing their friends, of joining the fight against the Dominion, of simple things like a good meal or seeing a smile on a familiar face; that was what had gotten them there, bruised and battered and tired beyond what any of them had ever thought possible. Now they had to face reality: their hope had been nothing but a foolish dream. They never had a chance. 

They were too late.

Bashir tried to remain calm, but Garak could see that even he was reaching the end of his rope. 

“Ok, if the commander has left, we’ll contact Kira. An encrypted message, you can do that, can’t you, Garak? She will know what to do, she’ll have all the information, our mission, all of it.”

“Why are you so sure Kira is still on the station? She could be on Bajor, or with Starfleet, she could be anywhere. And do you really think leaving instructions for you two would be a priority for Sisko?”

“Starfleet doesn’t abandon its own. And the Federation will not abandon this quadrant to the Dominion. We have to find the commander.”

“Worf, for all we know there are ten thousand Jem’Hadar between us and the commander, and more could be coming through that wormhole every minute. What we need is information, and a medical facility for you, and all of that is on that station right in front of us. I say that is where we go, for now. We can think of a plan once we got you in shape again.”

“But regulations state…”

“We’re at war, Worf!”

“Regulations always apply, doctor. Especially in a state of war.”

“You know, I think those words will someday be the title of an aria in an opera about you, Mr. Worf.”

“Garak, not now.”

“What you think about me has never been of interest to me, Garak.”

“Oh, the sentiment is mutual, Mr. Worf. And since I don’t care about you, your Starfleet and their regulations, or your wonderful and sadly absent commander, I agree with the doctor: we will get to the station. It is the most logical course of action.”

“You are both insane.”

“Look, Worf… maybe we can talk about this rationally…”

“As you yourself pointed out, doctor, we are at war. The only rational course of action for us as Starfleet officers is to follow Starfleet regulations. There is no other course of action. You, Mr. Garak, may do what you wish.”

“The only reason you don’t want to get on the station is because you’re sure your Jadzia isn’t there anymore. Well, some of us do still have people there, people we value more than your petty regulations!”

Worf had gotten out of his chair and Garak could see that, broken ribs or no broken ribs, he had decided that Garak’s last affirmation was not one he could respond to verbally. Garak stood up as well. Fine, he thought. Better like this. At least Worf is someone I respect.

“We all need to be somewhere else. Now.”

The Romulan hadn’t raised her voice, but her words cut through the charged atmosphere of the runabout like a blade. 

“The wormhole has been mined, and the mines have just been activated.”

Even the impassible Romulan could not avoid raising her eyebrows while delivering the news. If they had come through just half an hour later…

Garak felt a wave of emotion flood over him with such force that he actually had to hold on to the console behind him to avoid falling. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt such intense shame. Probably because he had never felt it. It seemed like the “post-hole era”, as he was beginning to call it in his head, was going to be - challenging in more than one aspect. 

On the outside, their situation hadn’t really changed: they still didn’t know if Kira was or was not on the station, Worf was still seriously hurt, they still had no specific orders or mission. And yet, everything was different. The war, which had only been a word floating around in subspace until now, had become real. They had all felt the brush of her bloody fingers when they looked at the figures on the Romulan’s console. 

There was nothing more to discuss. 

Except…

 

“I just wanted to talk to her.”

Two minutes later they were already on a safe route to rendezvous with the Defiant, and Garak didn’t even realise he had said it out loud until he felt the Romulan’s eyes on him. They were expressionless, as always. He turned around and saw Worf and Bashir looking at him too. Wonderful. Just wonderful. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again immediately. Anything he said would only make it worse. 

“Me too.”

Worf wasn’t looking at him when he spoke, but straight ahead at his monitor. Garak glanced at Julian, then turned back to his own console. There really wasn’t any more to say, was there. 

Well, yes. There was one thing.

“We’ll see them again.”

They continued their flight in silence.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kira and Ziyal talk about dating.

34\. 

Every week, Dukat invited Kira to dinner, and every week, Kira refused, just politely enough not to be out of line. Then, a day later, Ziyal invited Kira again. “Nerys”, she would say, in her sweetest voice. “I would so love to see you. We never talk anymore. You know you’re my only friend… ” 

“I’d love to have dinner with you, Ziyal, you know that. Any time you want to. Tonight. And we’ll talk as long and as much as you want.”

“Great! I’ll tell my father at seven then.”

“Not your father, Ziyal. You know it’s not him I want to see. It’s you.”

“Oh come on Nerys, don’t be ridiculous. You see my father every day, you talk to him every day, you work with him. And you like me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then where’s the harm in having dinner together, just the three of us? Nothing formal. I know you don’t believe this, but my father hates formal occasions as much as you do. He loves to cook for people, and you just have to taste his Hasperat. Come on, what do you say. It would make me so happy. It would be… well, it would be a bit like having a family again. A real family.”

“But we are not a family, Ziyal. I don’t want to hurt you, but you have to know that it’s never going to happen. I could never share a meal with Dukat like that.”

_But she doesn’t mind sharing his bed, does she?_

Ziyal didn’t want to think it, she wanted to stop herself before the thought formed in her mind, but it was too late: there it was, as if someone else had planted it there. And once it was there, it started to grow and spread, like the tentacles of something cold and evil slithering through her brain.

_Or maybe she doesn’t share his bed. Maybe she just goes to his room to let him touch her, to let him do what she needs him to do. But she doesn’t sleep there, so she tells herself it’s not really a relationship. She tells herself she has to do it - for what? for Bajor? For the Federation? For a better future? But she doesn’t believe herself. And she doesn’t love him, she doesn’t love your father. She hates him, she hates him more than anyone knows, and one of these days when she’s in his room she’s going to…_

That was when Ziyal would start to feel sick, and the look on her face made Kira say that if it was that important to her maybe they could have that dinner some day, Ziyal was right, it wasn’t that important, and if it would make Ziyal happy… And Ziyal said, never mind, maybe you are right, and walked away. And the next week she asked the same question again, and the next, and the next. She didn’t know why. She just knew that she needed it, she needed to hear that cold, cruel voice in her mind. Because it was his voice, and as long as she could hear him, he wasn’t dead. 

Until one week, Ziyal wouldn’t remember which, because one week was pretty much like the other, the conversation didn’t go as it always went. Kira and Ziyal were sitting on the sofa in Ziyal’s quarters, and Kira moved closer to her suddenly, as if she’d had to overcome some resistance. She made a movement as if to reach for Ziyal’s hand, but stopped in midair and put both her hands back into her lap. Her face seemed very calm.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Ziyal?”

“Yes, I told you, I want you to come and have dinner with my father and me.“

“No, Ziyal, that’s not what you want. Every week you ask me, and every week we have the same stupid conversation. Every time - every time, Ziyal - I end up saying yes, because you seem so sad, and sick somehow, and then you say no thank you and walk away looking as if you’re about to throw up. So, clearly, no, you don’t want to have that dinner. What is it that you really want?”

“Nothing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“If there’s anything you want, anything you need, you just have to ask. You know that.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Well, there is something I would like to ask you.” 

“All right.”

“It’s about my father.”

“All right. Go ahead.”

“Do you promise to tell the truth?”

“I promise.”

Kira’s face was no longer calm, it was a mask now, and Ziyal could feel that hers was the same. That’s all we are anymore, she thought. Masks. It felt more real when she was here. 

She felt her stomach clench when she thought “she”, and her right hand went to her left wrist to feel for something that used to be there. She couldn’t remember what it was, the same way she couldn’t remember who “she” was. It was just a shadow in the back of her mind, something moving there, and whenever she tried to look at it, it was gone. But she missed her, it, whatever it was, that much Ziyal knew. 

“Do you think I should go out with Damar?”

“What?”

“Damar. My father’s aide. You must know him, he’s always, well, around. Kind of stocky, very earnest…”

“Yes, I know who Damar is. I just - what is that - I mean, I thought you were going to… ask something about… about your father.”

Ziyal had never seen Kira stammer. She found she enjoyed it. 

“Well, it is about my father. Sort of. You see, he’s the one who suggested it.”

“He suggested you should date Damar?” 

“Well… yes. He said he felt I should have more contact with people closer to my age.”

“I see.”

“My father thinks very highly of Damar. He’s very - reliable.” 

“I’m sure he is.”

“So what do *you* think?”

“I think…”

As Kira pretended to think about her answer, Ziyal could see how disappointed she was. She had hoped this conversation would turn into something big and dramatic about her and Dukat, something final, hadn’t she? Ziyal was sure of it. And now they were talking about dating possibilities, and Kira would have to return to her life of lies and miserable compromise once again. Ziyal saw Kira’s jaw muscles working and her hands fidgeting, and she found she enjoyed that too. 

“I think, Ziyal, that you should do whatever *you* want to do, not what your father wants you to do.”

Of course. What else could her answer have been?

“But my father knows what’s best for me, doesn’t he?”

“Sometimes even parents who want the best for their children make mistakes.”

“My father doesn’t make mistakes.” 

Kira opened her mouth, then closed it again. After a pause she got up, but instead of walking to the door and leaving, possibly smashing something on her way out, as Ziyal had expected, she walked to the window and looked out, her back to Ziyal. When she spoke, she didn’t speak to Ziyal, but to herself. 

“Yes. Yes. You’re right. It’s easier like that. Just to follow. To believe…” 

“He’s a good man, Nerys. He only wants peace. You know that.”

There was the strangest smile on Kira’s face when she turned towards Ziyal. 

“Oh, I know him, Ziyal. I do know him.”

Ziyal didn’t like Kira’s new smile. She liked it better when she was nervous. The smile made Ziyal feel cold again, as if an icy hand was squeezing her brain inside her skull. She touched her wrist again and remembered what used to be there: her knives. Her lovely little knives. Where could she have put them? She would have to look for them. She was sure they were not far. 

Ziyal got up, walked into the bedroom and opened the closet. 

“So, what do you think I should wear for my date?”

Kira did not follow her, but as she spoke, Ziyal could feel her smile at her back. There were many teeth in that smile. 

“I’m sure your father will know. He’s the one who knows Damar, doesn’t he? He’ll know what he likes. Your father knows what’s best for you.” 

Ziyal stood in front of her open closet for a long time after Kira had left, the doors hissing shut behind her. It’s only one date, she thought. It will make my father happy. A new face, a new voice… What’s the worst that could happen?


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal goes on a date.

35.

“No, thank you. I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Why not?”

For the first time in the evening, maybe for the first time Ziyal had actually started to look at him as more than a piece of furniture that followed her father around, there was genuine emotion on Damar’s face: a sort of innocent, wide-eyed incredulity that suited his broad features. Simple curiosity. For a second, Ziyal glimpsed a handsome man. Maybe for that reason, or maybe because she was tired of keeping the expression of haughty disdain she had chosen for the evening chiseled onto her face, Ziyal decided to smile. Something like relief flittered across Damar’s face before it settled again into the scowl he seemed to have chosen, not for this evening, but for his life as an adult. 

“I never have, and I don’t see any reason to start. I’ve seen what it does to people.”

“What it does to weak people, you mean, people without self-control. Have you ever seen a drunk Cardassian?”

“Of course I have. There were many Cardassians in the camp, and, like everyone else, they made liquor out of anything they could lay their hands on.[ like what? I’d be interested in this, especially if you can make liquor out of something gruesome, like the hair from a corpse, or maybe bones…]”

Damar shifted uncomfortably in his seat, as he did every time Ziyal mentioned the camp. She had never liked to talk about it, but now that she was with her father, she didn’t care so much. She found it amusing that almost everyone reacted the same way: first they looked away, as if she was something soiled, unpleasant, and then towards her again with a pained smile, the kind you gave an ugly baby while you told its parents it was so cute. 

Well, almost everyone did that. Kira didn’t. Whenever the camp was mentioned, her breathing got heavy and she started fidgeting with the collar of her uniform, as if the temperature of the room had suddenly risen. Ziyal didn’t find that amusing at all, so she never talked about the camp around Kira. Her father, on the other hand, went out of his way to casually introduce the subject whenever Kira was there, always smiling broadly. It was their own private game. One of them. 

There were no games with Damar, and Ziyal suddenly felt like it was easier to breathe. He found the subject embarrassing, like everyone else, but he had a point to make, and Ziyal found she was curious to hear what it was. 

“Those men…”

“… And women”, Ziyal added.

“Those men and women, there, in that - camp, they had lost their way. They were not true Cardassians anymore. To any true Cardassian, overindulging in any sort of substance to the point of losing control is - simply unthinkable.”

“Well then I must be the absolutely perfect Cardassian - at least where my intake of, uh, substances is concerned.”

“No, you see, that’s where you are wrong. Complete abstinence is also a sign of weakness. It is a sign of fear, fear that your self-control will not be strong enough. Not to put yourself to the test, that is weakness too. Maybe the worst kind of weakness.”

“That is absurd. I’ll have you know that I have done extensive reading, and in most cultures that have reached a certain level of sophistication, as I’m sure you’ll agree Cardassia has, resisting temptation is considered a sign of strength, and giving in to it is failure and often sinful. Now, in some cultures, this kind of failure is actively sought out by certain types of people, mostly artists and the like, because it is believed to expand the mind and lead to discoveries that following the path of virtue can not, but…” 

“This reading of yours, it was not Cardassian, was it?”

“Well, some of it was…”

“Clearly not enough, and not the right kind. I can imagine who counselled you.”

Do not say his name, Ziyal thought. If he says his name… 

But Damar didn’t say it. It was not Garak he was interested in, after all. What interested Damar most was Damar himself. Self-absorbed, preaching schoolmasters, all of them, Ziyal thought and mmediately bowed her head, ashamed such a thought could have entered her mind. How could she? Wasn’t her father the best of men, the gentlest, the bravest? Damar smiled, probably believing she was bowing her head in awe of his knowledge and eloquence. 

“To give in to temptation knowingly, and then to triumph over it, *that* is true strength. The kind of strength that, in all the Universe, only the Cardassian can muster. And that is why it is the destiny of our people to rule over others and serve as a shining example throughout the galaxies, that is why it was our destiny to ally ourselves with the Dominion. “*We* are the Dominion!”

He was agitated now, raising his voice, and a few heads in the restaurant were turning towards them. Ziyal was repulsed and amused at the same time. He believed with such force that it made him almost irresistible. It made her want to draw him out, put him to the test. The idea of fighting him made her heart beat faster, and she realised she hadn’t felt like that for a while now. Not since that day in Garak’s shop, and how well that had ended. 

Still, wasn’t it an interesting notion: Garak, as everyone knew, was a coward and a traitor, and he was dead. Ziyal had taken to repeat that to herself until she started to believe it. A seducer, that’s what Garak had been. Damar, sitting in front of her gulping Kanar as fast as he could to prove his point, and about as seductive as a cauliflower, was everything a Cardassian man was supposed to be. 

Had her father known it would go like this? Well, of course, didn’t he know her better than anyone? 

Damar, oblivious to her train of thought, was still waiting for her answer to his speech, so Ziyal said: “How interesting. Do you think we could get the check now?” 

She liked seeing him have to come back from the fantasy of uniting whole galaxies under Cardassian rule to awkwardly signalling a waitress and fumbling for credits in his pocket. It made her think of her mother for some reason, which was ridiculous, of course. There were no two people as different as her mother and Damar. Starting with the fact that Damar was a soldier, a Cardassian patriot, and her mother was nothing but a Bajoran whore. 

On their way back to her quarters, Ziyal started to feel very tired, and without even thinking about it, she put her arm on Damar’s and leaned on him as they walked silently. She thought idly about inviting him in, and for a second she saw Lamar Toral’s apartment again, beige carpet, beige walls, beige chairs, and not a speck of dust. Her quarters were very clean, too, now. Would Damar try to kill her if she touched him? But she didn’t think she could, even if she wanted to, she was so very tired… 

She turned to him when they reached her door, hoping her smile didn’t look as dead as she felt.

“I had a really good time, Damar. Thank you.”

“It didn’t seem like you were having a good time.”

He wasn’t supposed to say that. The way she had imagined the scene the day before, he stammered something about having a good time too, and then they arranged to meet again the following day, or a few days after that, much to Dukat’s satisfaction. It *was* an arranged date, after all. Enjoying it or not wasn’t of much consequence, especially in his case. He didn’t have the option of telling Dukat he thought his daughter was rude and boring and he’d rather not see her again. Did he really not know this, or was it just that he didn’t care? Whatever the case, Ziyal could never resist honesty. Besides, she was too tired to fake indignation. 

“Well, I wasn’t. You were being extremely boring and pompous.”

This caught him by surprise and he laughed unguardedly. Ziyal hadn’t thought he was the kind of man who could laugh about himself. Or maybe he was laughing at her after all, and she was just too tired to see it. He had a nice laugh. 

“That’s because you were being prissy, arrogant, and generally unpleasant.”

“Right then, it’s clear that this was a very bad idea.”

“Absolutely.”

“So, do you want to see me again, or not?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Ziyal narrowed her eyes. 

“You really do want that promotion, don’t you?”

“I don’t need to go out with you to get a promotion.”

He believed that, he really believed it. Ziyal closed her eyes again. Listening to him was like slipping into a fresh-made bed with cool, clean sheets. 

“That’s nice. I really need to go to bed, Damar. I’m very tired.

“Yes, I can see that. You ate too much. Are you free tomorrow?”

“I’m always free.” 

“I’ll be here at seven.”

“All right.”

“This time, I’ll choose the restaurant, and I’ll make sure you eat better. And drink a proper glass of Kanar. Oh, and wear a different dress, that colour doesn’t suit you.”

“All right.”

Without another word, he walked away. Ziyal didn’t even consider undressing, she barely made it to the bed, each step as painful as dragging lead over a bed of hot coals. So that’s a real Cardassian man, she thought, that’s my future. Then sleep closed on her like the door of a dungeon.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal has a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kanar is a Cardassian alcoholic beverage, which varies in color and is somewhat thick in consistency compared to most Human drinks.

36.

Before consciousness, before hearing or tasting or (much later) seeing anything, there was the pounding. She had come to welcome the savage pain in her head because it reassured her that she was still alive before having to open her eyes and begin the distasteful task of taking in her surroundings. Why it should be important to be alive for one more pathetic, wasted day, she didn’t know, and didn’t ask. She didn’t ask herself much these days. 

 

After a few more dates with Damar, the tiredness crept into Ziyal’s bones and stayed there. She felt like she needed to lie down and sleep all the time, and when she was sleeping, it felt like she was awake, and being awake in her dream, she felt tired and wanted to sleep. She didn’t have nightmares anymore. Instead, she dreamt of endless dates with Damar, listing to his voice drone on and on, watching him pick the food from between his teeth, smelling his breath when he burped after his tenth beer. At least the nightmares had made her feel the beating of her heart in her breast. At least in them she had seen people who she had once believed to be her friends. Now she didn’t have any friends. She had her father, and she had Damar. She could hear her father’s voice: “What more do you need?” What more did she need, indeed. 

Despite his lecture to Ziyal about Cardassian literature, she had soon discovered that Damar had never read a book in his life and didn’t consider it necessary either. It was enough for him to know that there were other people dedicated to the continuing glorification of his home planet through the arts. He was a soldier and his duty was to protect them and to ensure their works reached the farthest corners of the Universe, were everyone could bask in the shining glory of… And so on. What had at first seemed like a refreshing display of sincere emotion was nothing more than the empty repetition of empty phrases he had learned without understanding them, and after fifty minutes of it, Ziyal found herself again contemplating the best angle from which to break a man’s neck.

It was not like he wasn’t making an effort, in his own way. Even Damar had enough presence of mind to stop his tirades occasionally and ask her things like how she had liked the University on Bajor or what her favourite colour was, things a man like him would suppose a woman would like to talk about. The smile on his face when she told him she had been delving into Cardassian history and literature lately was genuine, and she hadn’t even said it to flatter him. It almost made up for the long minutes of mind-numbing blathering. But not really. 

He even asked her about the camp once or twice, and Ziyal could not help but appreciate this. She suspected Damar was the kind of guy who liked to imagine his girlfriends had no past, that their real life started when they met him. She had to be an immaculate flower, a blank piece of paper on which he, the man, the great Damar, would write the beginning, middle and end of their story. Not that actual writing was an interest of Damar’s, he had only blinked and nodded when, out of sheer boredom and despair rather than the wish to share anything with him, she told him she led a journal and liked to write poems occasionally. 

“Very bad poems, but still, it’s fun. And I hope in time they will get better.”

“I’m sure they are very good.”

“I could read you one. I could recite one right now, if you want.”

That was cruel, admittedly. Damar looked as if she’d proposed that for their next date, they should try to flush themselves out of an airlock. 

“Uh… sure, if you like…”

Ziyal sighed and shook her head. Her poems, all three of them, were about Garak, and she was too tired to remember any of them anyway. She would throw them away as soon as she got to her quarters - if she didn’t fall asleep first. They walked back in silence, she leaning on him, the way she always did, and Ziyal thought what she always thought: if it could always be like this, if we didn’t have to talk, it wouldn’t be so bad. 

“Would you like to come to my quarters?”

_Will there be a bed there?  
Will I have to talk?  
Sure, if I can be unconscious.   
I’d rather poke my own eyes out of their sockets with a spoon.  
Father, will you not help me? Is this what you want?  
Garak, are you really dead? Where are you?_

_Think of Lamar Toral, Ziyal. Think of him._

“All right”, she said. She couldn’t think of anything else. 

 

So, first, there was the pounding, steady, resonating, sending waves down to her stomach where the familiar nausea was already uncurling. Every time was like the first time. Damar had assured her it would get better, she would get used to it and then she could finally appreciate the benefits of Kanar without any of the inconveniences, as he did. Every night before she lost consciousness, Ziyal hoped that the next day would finally be the day she woke up without a headache, without the nausea and the stomach cramps, or that at least they would be less intense. And every day she woke up feeling just as terrible as the day before, and all she could think was: I’ll have to try again tonight. I’m getting there, I’m sure I am. She never though: I have to stop. She needed it.

Why did she need it? Because it tasted so good, laying on her tongue like velvet, bringing tears of relief to her eyes. Because it made her thoughts sparkle and expand and dance, instead of just falling to her feet like grey bricks. Because it made her laugh and laugh and laugh. It made her want to strip off her clothes and tell Damar the story behind every single one of her scars, and it made her bold enough to do it. It made her bold enough to do anything. 

Kanar had freed her. 

She hadn’t realised how afraid she was of everything until she started drinking. The drink made her fear go away; the drink made everything go away and only left joy, pure and simple. No more complicated, slippery feelings, no more trying to convince herself that she was this or that: a student, a murderer, a daughter, a girl, a woman, a Cardassian, a Bajoran, a lover. Only now did she realise what a strain that had been, what a heavy burden. With a few glasses of Kanar, with a single sip even, all that went away: she didn’t have to struggle to find who she was, and she didn’t have to leave anything behind to be able to live in peace either. She didn’t need anyone or anything. She just was, and it was good. It was such a perfect certainty, such a beauty, that it made her want to scream.

Sometimes it also made her see things. Once she had a long conversation with her mother, and finally she could understand her, and love her for who she was, and tell her so. When she realised it was Damar she was hugging and kissing she was so disappointed she could have killed him, or herself, but he just handed her the bottle, and it went away. It all went away, that was the beauty of it. 

And then there was the time she had run out of the room and into the nearest airlock. All she wanted was to just float out and be one with space. Surely she could do that? Wasn’t she invincible, wasn’t she the most perfect being every created? Before pressing the control to lock the access, she looked outside to see if anyone had followed her - Damar, her father, Kira… They wouldn’t understand, they would try to stop her. 

But she didn’t see any of them. It was Garak standing there, and so she didn’t press the control and asked: “Are you back?”, and he answered: “I never left.” He looked strange, very pale, his eyes very wide and very dark, he was breathing heavily, and his face looked moist, as if he was sweating. But he wasn’t maimed like in the nightmares, his eyes were there, so were his hands. He just looked frightened, like a little boy who was lost and alone. 

Ziyal wanted to be angry with him for interrupting her moment of joy and clarity, for making her feel sad and worried, but she couldn’t help asking: “Are you all right?” 

“It’s very hot in here”, he said, “and very dark. I’m afraid.” 

“Where are you?” 

“Open the door.” 

“I can’t. I have to go out, into space.” 

“Open the door, please.” 

“No. Come with me into space. We’ll be together, would’t you like that?”

“OPEN THE DOOR, ZIYAL!” Damar was pounding at the airlock access. 

“Where’s Garak?”, Ziyal asked. When Damar finally realised the access wasn’t locked, he ran in and punched Ziyal so hard she fell straight to the floor, like a bag of wet clothes. 

“What are you doing, you stupid fool?” 

“Where did he go? Did you see him? He was just here…”

Damar had dragged her back to his room and given her a shot of Kanar, in case the punch hadn’t been enough to knock her out. When she woke up, he had given her an angry lecture - he loved lectures: if she couldn’t control herself, and it was obvious she couldn’t, if she was going to run around the station making a spectacle of herself, they would have to discontinue their relationship. Those were the actual words he used: “I see no other choice but to discontinue our relationship”. 

“What relationship?”, she had sneered. “Coming here every night to get drunk and puke on each other? That’s certainly a relationship I can do without. I should have *discontinued* it right from the start!” 

She stormed out of the room and that same night, at the usual time, she was standing in front of his door, wearing next to nothing. He let her in and opened a bottle of Kanar; they didn’t speak until they were halfway through it. Then he took her clothes off.

 

The first time they had sex, Ziyal expected to feel repulsed, like she had felt in the camp before she learned how to - dissuade her suitors, like she had felt when Lamar Toral had leaned on her and run his hand up her thigh. Oooh, I know you are going to love this. I know you want it. When Damar started kissing her, that first night she had gone with him to his quarters, she thought “maybe I won’t be able to stand it and I’ll kill him, just like Torel, like all the others”. 

But it was different with Damar: he was rough, and he clearly wasn’t very interested in how she felt during the whole process, but there was a kind of innocence to him. There wasn’t hate, or violence, nothing twisted or perverse, just pure unbridled lust. He probably hadn’t had many women, and even less, if any, of the kind that didn’t expect money in return for their time and body. He was just a big boy enjoying himself, and Ziyal found she was able to take her own joy in that. 

The disgust came afterwards, when she was lying beside him. As he turned to her and smiled, putting a hand on her hip, possessive and stupidly proud, as if he’d just achieved a heroic feat, she looked into his eyes and saw - nothing. There wasn’t a blank mirror that hid an unfathomable depth, like there had been with Garak, or a screen that only showed what it was programmed to show, like with her father and Kira. There was nothing in Damar’s eyes because there was nothing inside Damar. Once his childish desires had been satisfied, when there were no phrases to declaim and no immediate duties or chores to perform, there was nothing more than the dull satisfaction of a senseless creature. For him, what they had done had implied no communication of any kind, no exchange of anything human - just the satisfaction of a physical necessity, like sleep or defecation. 

 

_What are you doing?_

She knew it wasn’t Garak, as surely as she knew he hadn’t been standing on the other side of that airlock. It could not be Garak’s voice she was hearing. Garak was dead.

_What are you doing, my darling?_

Also, Garak had never called her "darling". No one ever did that. No one except her father.

She went to the bathroom and leaned over the sink. Kneeling beside the toilet to throw up had always seemed absurd to her. As if the mere act of vomiting wasn’t humiliating enough. When she was finished, she went back into the room and started to get dressed. 

“Where are you going?”

He said that every time. 

“To my quarters.”

“Will I see you tonight.”

She left without an answer. They both knew it meant “yes”.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kira laughs. Then she sends a message.

37\. 

“We have to do something.”

What was she expecting by coming here? Understanding? A thoughtful conversation? Or just another romp on the floor? Kira had the feeling that something was bound to happen, but then she’d had that feeling for weeks, and nothing had. Clearly, her feelings were something she couldn’t trust anymore. Like everything else. 

“*We* have to do something, major? What do *we* have to do something about, tell me?”

“You know what I mean, Dukat. Do you really think this is the time to be playing one of your little games? This is your daughter we’re talking about. I thought you cared about her.”

She didn’t even see him move. In a second, Dukat was upon her, pushing Kira against the bulkhead without even touching her, just with the sheer force of his fury and disdain. 

“You *thought* I loved her? Who are you to question my love for my daughter? Who are you to even speak to me of her? You - you are nothing but a grimy little whore with delusions of grandeur who should have been executed, buried and forgotten years ago.”

Kira stood her ground, looking Dukat straight in the eye, concentrating all her energies on keeping her hands from shaking and her face set in an expression of defiance. His mouth was so close, he was leaning in on her, and her knees were starting to get shaky, like they always did. Kira bit her lip so hard she could taste the blood. 

“I’m also Ziyal’s friend.”

After what seemed like hours, but was probably just a few seconds, Dukat stepped away. His face was placid. He knew that Kira was disconcerted by his sudden changes of mood, and he used that, of course he did. He loved to play with her. And didn’t she love being played with? 

“I know. And you know I have always accepted that. More than accepted, I have welcomed it. I have always encouraged Ziyal to explore her Bajoran roots, and you have been - a great support for her.”

“Is that why you wanted her to date Damar? To get closer to her Bajoran roots?” 

Dukat smiled. 

“You know, I think this conversation has started all wrong. Why don’t you sit down, Nerys? Have a glass of wine, relax, make yourself comfortable, and we can talk about whatever you want.”

“I’m not here to relax, Dukat.”

“And you’re sure I can’t - convince you?” 

“No.” She wanted to say not now, not ever again, but she knew better. She had already said that before. More than once. 

Dukat sighed and displayed himself theatrically on the sofa. 

“All right then, no relaxing. More’s the pity. So, as I understand it, there is something about Ziyal that you want to discuss.” 

That was what he did. Violence mixed up with seduction followed by the appearance of a perfectly ordinary man discussing ordinary matters. What next? Maybe innuendo, subtle threats, followed by an outburst of sincerity. Julian would have said it was nothing but a cheap psycho-game, and Kira knew it. She saw through every one of them. And yet, he had a right to sit there and look at her smugly because his games worked. Every time. 

But not today, because today was not about Kira, and it was not about Dukat either. Kira sat on the chair across from the sofa, with the coffee table between them. She thought she saw Dukat smirk, but wasn’t he always smirking? Seconds ticked away, threatening to turn into minutes, and still no one was speaking. Part of Kira couldn’t believe that he would sit there, pretending he had no idea what she needed to talk about. The other part couldn’t believe there was anything about this man that would surprise her.

“She’s drinking, Dukat. A lot. She’s ruining herself.”

“Aren’t you being a tad melodramatic? She’s young and she has a lot to catch up on, that’s all.”

“Catch up? Is that what you think is going on here? Have you looked at her lately?”

“Oh yes, I have looked at her very closely, Nerys, and I have known her for a lot longer than you. Her childhood was, well, restless, and then it was over. Her youth was spent in a prisoner camp trying to survive, while other girls her age were meeting boys, learning about the ways of the world, dancing, drinking… She’s twenty years old now, and she wants to experience all that she missed. And maybe, since she’s conscious of all the time she lost, she wants to experience it a little - faster. Can anyone really blame her for it?”

It sounded reasonable. After all she had been through, who could begrudge Ziyal a couple of wild nights, a fling, several flings? Except it was more than a couple of nights, and she wasn’t having flings, she wasn’t experimenting. She was stuck in a very bad place. 

“That’s not what’s happening, and you know it. What she’s doing is spending night after night in Damar’s quarters, drinking herself into oblivion, and day after day in her own quarters, waiting for the next night. She’s not going out anymore, she’s not seeing anyone else, from what I can tell she’s barely eating… That’s not experience of life, that’s a vicious circle. No matter how much you like Damar, I cannot believe that you approve of this, Dukat.”

Dukat got up and walked over to the window. 

“I don’t.”

This was what Kira had tried to steel herself against. His voice got low, his shoulders fell forward very slightly, in a way only someone who knew him really well would notice. He was so good at this, and it was precisely because he wasn’t *acting* like was vulnerable. He *was* vulnerable now. Dukat had an ability to open and close himself like a valve whenever he needed to. The trick was that it was real. 

Kira had to force herself not to walk up to him, put her hand on his arm, tell him everything was going to be all right. 

“Then talk to her. She’ll listen to you. And you have to order Damar to stop seeing her.”

“Just like that. Talk to Ziyal, talk to Damar, problem solved. Easy as a summer breeze.” 

“It would be a start.”

Dukat turned towards her. Kira knew Dukat better than anyone, she had studied him for a long time, obsessively. She thought about him every day, she knew every wrinkle, every nuance of every movement. But now for the first time she could not read the expression on his face.

“It could also be the end.”

“I - I don’t understand.”

“Nerys, neither you nor I nor anyone can truly know how *damaged* my daughter is. What I said before, her need to experience what was denied to her - that is only the surface. What she is doing is trying to survive, any way she can. Believe me, I know. And for someone like her, surviving can mean something different every day. One day, it means starting an affair with a sleazy traitor like Garak who will carelessly betray her and me and everything we believe in on a simple whim. Another day, it means sustaining a friendship with you, a woman that at this very moment is plotting to overthrow me and dreams every day of killing me while we fuck. And yet another day, it means starting another affair with my dumb blockhead of an aide and poisoning herself with Kanar every night. Or it maybe even mean she needs to maintain a secret correspondence with a Starfleet officer who could very possibly be secretly boarding the station as we speak, no doubt to aid any and all plans of the resistance to retake the station.”

“…”

“And if that is what she needs, Nerys, then so. Be. It. I am not her therapist, I am not her husband, I am not even her friend. All I can do is be here to pick up the pieces, and if you really are her friend, if you care about her as much as you say, so will you. And pray very hard to those prophets of yours that one of us survives.”

There were tears shining in Dukat’s eyes. He blinked, and the drops started to roll down his cheeks, shiny, beautiful, almost too perfect to be real. He took a step towards Kira, holding out his arms, expecting her to fall into them, overwhelmed by emotion, helpless, paralysed by desire and the horrible knowledge that she wanted to believe him. 

Didn’t she always - fall into his arms?

Kira laughed. 

Dukat’s arms dropped back to his sides, his eyes narrowed, and the tears in his eyes disappeared as if they had never been there. 

“Do you find this amusing, Major?”

“I - I’m sorry. No, it’s not amusing. It’s very sad, really. It’s sad that Ziyal has suffered so much, and is still suffering. It’s sad that she has a father like you, who thinks he can win her by letting her destroy herself, who has to possess her by erasing everything she ever was, who thinks that to love means to look the other way, to take the easy way out. And it’s sad that she has friends like me, who make her believe that they will be there for her and then disappear in their own miserable tangled lives. I laugh because I’m relieved.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because now I’ll never have to come here again.”

With two long strides he was by her side, then holding her, kissing her neck, running his hand softly along the curve of her breast. 

“You said that last night, and here you are.”

Kira didn’t move, didn’t lose her smile.

“Last night was long ago.”

He took a step back. He was used to struggle, resistance, then surrender. He was used to gasping, crying, screaming. Indifference and absent smiles, now that *really* had to confuse him. 

“Nerys, what is wrong? What did I do?”

He was using his honest face again, and Kira wanted to scream for joy because she didn’t need to fight it anymore. It didn’t matter anymore if it was a trick or real. It didn’t matter that he really didn’t know what was wrong, that what he had said about Ziyal was monstrous and unnatural.

It did not concern her anymore. 

“I saw you, Dukat, that’s what happened. That speech about Ziyal, the one you thought was going to move me so much - that’s when I finally saw you, and I thank the prophets for it.”

“You’ve always seen me, Nerys. Just as I am. You know you’re the only one…”

“Spare me. I’m not interested. You and me, it’s finished, Dukat. Look at me. You know it’s true.”

“Do you really think it will be so easy?”

“The only way you’re going to come near me again is if you force me, and you’re not ready to do that, not yet.”

“Yet. Interesting choice of words.”

“Oh, you’ll come for me, I know that. But by then, it won’t matter, because everything will be in place, and you will lose.”

“I could have you confined to the brig for what you just said.”

“You could, but you won’t. You love the game too much.”

“Almost as much as you.”

Kira stood there for a minute longer, wondering if she should say something more. After everything, didn’t he deserve at least a gesture, a word of goodbye? Before she could finish her thought, Dukat spoke.

“You can’t have her. She’s mine.”

Kira didn’t have to ask who he meant.

“She’s no ones. Not yours, not mine, not Damar’s.” Not even Garak’s, she thought, but she didn’t say that out loud. “She’s her own.”

As she was leaving, Kira could still hear him say “Mine. She’s mine”, and a cold horror crept over her skin and into her heart. This had been the deepest and truest passion in her life, she was sure she was never going to feel anything like it ever again - and one day there would be a reckoning for it. One day. 

But before that, there were things to do. Secret meetings, strategies, calculations. The procuring and storing of weapons. Communications. And one very important message to a dead man.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak gets a proposal from Dax. Then he gets a message.

38.

“We did it, Garak! Great job! Go Defiant!” 

They walked past him, slapped him on the back, smiling, laughing, relieved. He smiled back. They hadn’t won the battle, but they hadn’t lost either, they were all still alive, their ship was flying. The crew was happy. 

That was one of the advantages of war: being happy became so much simpler. If by the end of the day there wasn’t a hole in themselves, one of their crewmates or the ship, they had reason to be happy. They took out their bottles of Romulan ale, or scotch, or bloodwine, or kanar, even though they knew it was against regulations, and had a glass or two with their comrades. And because of the war, the Captain would look the other way, and sometimes she would even join them, and they’d all sit together, drinking, talking, sharing stories. Listening to them one would think this war, a war that was barely a couple of months old, had been going on for years, for generations, and people who had fallen yesterday, or last week, were talked about as if they were heroes from a distant past. 

It had to be that way, of course. Only by making themselves believe it had always been that way could they live through this: the constant danger, the fear, the separation from their loved ones. All of these men and women had gone from a life of comfort, with good meals, warm beds, family and friends, interesting jobs, structured days, to day after day of blood, hurt, barely edible rations, hard bunks, chaos, and never enough sleep. Life on the Defiant during the Dominion war was still better than much of what Garak had seen on the backstreets of the great cities of Cardassia Prime, or on Bajor during the occupation, but despite their training these Starfleet officers and crewmen had never known a continuous state of war. Telling stories, huddling together, creating heroes, that was how they gathered their strength for the next day, the next red alert, the next battle. 

And when there wasn’t time for that, a slap on the back had to do. 

“Great job! We did it! Go us!”

Us, that meant him too, Elim Garak, former spy and assassin, former tailor, and currently - what? External consultant for Starfleet? War had worked another of its strange miracles. A few weeks sharing bad meals and dubious toilets on a cramped ship had accomplished what years living and working on Deep Space 9 couldn’t: he was one of “us” now, one of the team. He was trusted. Worf and Bashir’s tale of their stay in the camp and how he had helped with their escape had no doubt contributed to his new status, but it was more than that. For the first time, he was not being observed so much as seen. 

They saw him running to a wounded crew member and administering first aid, then taking over the wounded officer’s station until her replacement got there, sometimes until the battle was over because there was no replacement. They saw him not only decrypting devilishly tricky Dominion communications, but showing others how to do it, thus making himself expendable. They saw him hunch for hours beside an open console and fiddle with the relays until it worked again, without anyone telling him or even asking him to do it. And whenever someone cursed the damn Cardassians (and it happened often), they heard him patiently explain, again and again, that it wasn’t Cardassia they were fighting now, it was the Dominion and one Cardassian, Dukat, who had forced the Cardassian people into this damnable alliance. 

They saw, and they listened. Many, most of them, in fact, didn’t share his opinion, but they listened, and the more they listened the more they tried not to blame the Cardassians whenever Garak was around, and since it wasn’t a big ship and Garak moved around a lot, soon they stopped blaming the Cardassians altogether. He noticed, and he knew they didn’t do it because they suddenly understood or even liked Cardassians. They did it for his sake, because they knew it bothered him. Some even began to start conversations about Cardassia with him, asking him about his home planet, things like was it true it was always above 40ºC there, even in winter? What kind of pets did people have? What games did the children play? This they also did for his sake, because they knew he missed his home and he liked talking about it. 

Garak didn’t quite know how to feel about that. Being thankful would be appropriate, he supposed, but he had so little experience with that…

And then one day, Dax pulled him apart and offered him a field commission. 

“I don’t know what to say.”

Which was true, another sensation he had little experience with. Garak *always* knew what to say. 

“You should say you’re very honoured, and you accept, and thank you. It’s not something that we give out lightly. But you have indeed shown this crew, this ship and Starfleet extraordinary services under combat conditions. Plus, it would make everyone’s work easier.”

“How so?”

“It would just make everything smoother. As it is, you’re always doing things, but you report to no one, you don’t fit into the structure. Things are chaotic enough as they are.”

“So it would be essentially a question of order.”

“Essentially. As an officer, you would have a clearly defined place in the chain of command. You could lead your own teams, make your own decisions, but you would also have to hand in reports and justify your actions. In short, you would be subject at all times to Starfleet regulations, which you would have to learn. By heart. And follow. No matter what.”

“And you would trust me with that?”

Dax wasn’t smiling, but there was warmth in her eyes. 

“The crew trusts you. I’m just following their lead.”

“What about Sisko?”

“What about him? He’s with Starfleet Command now. He’s not the captain of this ship, I am.” 

“I see. And if I turn out not to be worth of this - trust?”

“Well, we are at war, you know. Tragic accidents happen. You would be missed.”

Garak looked at the floor and pretended to be shaken and humbled for exactly forty-eight seconds. Then he looked up. If Dax wasn’t smiling, he certainly wouldn’t be smiling either, although he felt like it for the first time in a long while. He felt - light. 

“Do I get a uniform?”

“Maybe.”

“Do I get pips?”

“Yes, you do get pips.”

“Would people have to call me ‘sir’?”

Not a muscle moved in Dax’s face.

“Some people.”

“Then, Commander, it would be my honour to accept.”

Only after they had shaken hands they allowed each other a grin. 

And so it came to be that he, Elim Garak, was going to be made a lieutenant in Starfleet. There was even going to be a party, which was of course just another excuse to get together and drink and sing and tell stories, but Garak was glad he could provide that excuse for them. 

The quarters he shared with three other crew members was empty for once because the crew was already gathered in the mess hall, and Garak was trying to decide if it would be more suitable to wear something subdued to this party (I take this responsibility seriously!), or something festive (I am happy to serve!). The only difference would be a dark grey or a shimmering golden patch on his otherwise light grey jacket, the only one he owned. A trivial matter, surely. Probably no one would even notice. And yet, it seemed important. 

He was reflecting on how absurd and yet oddly reassuring it was that something like the right clothes should and could be so important in the middle of a war, when he noticed an intermittent light on the computer console, indicating there was a message - which was strange, because messages on the ship were not sent to consoles in quarters, only to workstations. There weren’t enough individual PADDs on the ship, so consoles in quarters were used to check duty rosters, team configurations, things like that. 

Maybe now that I’m an officer, I’ll get a PADD, Garak thought as he moved closer to the console. Maybe I’ll finally find a way to send messages outside of the ship… 

Of course he could have stolen a PADD very easily, and of course he could have sent any messages he wanted to anyone he wanted whenever he wanted. But sending unauthorised messages could give away their position and endanger the ship, and stealing a PADD would mean taking it away from someone who needed it, and possibly getting someone else in trouble who would be accused of doing it. Garak found those were things he no longer wanted to do, not even for his own advantage. Almost unconsciously he waited for his father’s voice in his mind to mock him for it. But Tain was silent. 

The blinking light on the console was a message, a message for him, and just to see that it came from Deep Space 9 made his heart skip a beat. Who else was there on DS9 who knew how to encrypt a message like this, and then to find out exactly where to send it? Who else was there who still cared if he was alive or dead? For a second, Garak even forgot how he and Ziyal had parted, what he had said to her before he left. How she had looked at him. All he thought about was her face and how he wanted to see it again.

The message was not from Ziyal. It was from Kira, and it was just one sentence.

_If you loved her, get here soon._


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal makes a mess and needs to clean the floor. Damar says something comforting.

39\. 

The first time Ziyal had been conscious of seeing blood she must have been four or five. Her mother and father had been arguing. Dukat had struck her mother across the face, and when she turned to look at him again, there was blood trickling from her mouth. Her father knelt down beside her mother and started to kiss the blood away from her face. Then they went into the bedroom and didn’t come out for a long time - that night, like many other nights, Ziyal had to find dinner on her own and put herself to bed. 

From then on, all she wanted was for her father to do the same with her: kiss away the blood from her face and then take her away and spend long hours just with her, forgetting about everyone else, even her mother. So for a time, whenever her father was around, she tried to make him angry, so he would strike her and make her bleed. But Dukat only laughed, called her “my feisty little angel”, “my rebel warrior girl”. It was her mother who struck her, but only when he was gone, and she didn’t kiss away the blood, when there was any: she sent Ziyal to bed without dinner and the next morning they both pretended nothing had happened. 

Then, Ziyal tried to make herself bleed: she jumped from impossible heights, ran into walls and doors as fast as she could, threw around knives imitating what she had seen in computer games. Her mother screamed at her and locked her in her room, but she didn’t hit her anymore. Ziyal could see her mother was scared of her, and that made her proud and sad at the same time. She did bleed often now, her face and body were covered with scars, but still her father did not kiss away the blood. He talked about training her, that she had it in her to be a fighter, and Ziyal thought that training with her father must be even better. Didn’t that mean that he had to spend a lot of time with her, every day? But he never did, it was only something he said before he disappeared again, for weeks, for months. 

And then one day he stopped calling her “my little warrior princess” and started giving long talks instead, almost lectures, about how she was a little lady now, the daughter of Gul Dukat, and she should behave accordingly. Her mother started to sew dresses for her instead of jump-suits, made her grow her hair out, braid it. By then, Ziyal had understood why Dukat had kissed away the blood on her mother’s face and why they had disappeared into the bedroom. She put on her dresses, braided her hair the way her father liked it and listened to his lectures again and again, because when he was giving them at least he was looking at her, calling her daughter, my daughter. That, Ziyal knew, was all the attention she was going to get. 

For now. 

Many years had passed since, and many things had happened. Ziyal had bled more since then, much more, and she had learned to make others bleed. She knew the taste of blood, the smell of it, her hands had been soaked in it. Blood, she knew now, was not something you wanted someone to kiss or touch. You wanted it to be gone as soon as possible, be it on you or others. That was if you couldn’t avoid it altogether. Why make a mess when a few simple movements, a little pressure applied to the right places, could yield the same result? Someone who was silent instead of speaking, someone lying quiet instead of moving his hands up her thighs. 

There was no romance, no mystery to blood now. And yet, lately, Ziyal found herself wondering. She had always loved her two little knives, so cool and small against her wrists, her little moonshine secret, and these days she missed them more than ever. She couldn’t wear them when she was with Damar because she wasn’t wearing enough clothes to conceal them, and she couldn’t wear them when she was with her father because it would have felt strange, like a convoluted form of betrayal. Not that she was spending much time with her father anyway. When she wasn’t with Damar she was alone in her quarters, and that was when she took them out and just sat with them. How would it feel if she should pierce her skin with them? Would her blood still look and smell and taste like everyone else’s? Maybe it would be thick and sweet now, like old Kanar. Or maybe it would be salty and pungent, like Damar’s skin. 

She longed to see it, just a drop of it, or maybe two. She had given away her body, she had given away her thoughts, she had given away her soul, if she had ever had one, but her blood was still hers. Nobody had laid claim to that, nobody could. So why not have a look at it? Just a small nick somewhere no one would see, not even Damar: the back of her knee, her feet, the inside of her hands. No one ever looked at her hands. 

It was a disappointment. 

It was just blood, not thicker, not sweeter, not saltier than anyone else’s. It was red and liquid and it stained the carpet because she wasn’t really thinking when she cut herself open, she wasn’t prepared. She didn’t think anything would actually come out. 

So she bandaged her hand and got down on her knees with some extremely powerful detergent she had replicated - chemistry books were indeed quite useful when one knew how to apply the knowledge -, because she didn’t trust the normal cleaning agents, the ones everyone used. They were not for blood, after all, they were just for dirt. She enjoyed the physical activity and she scrubbed and scrubbed, even after the blood was long gone. 

She was just thinking that maybe she could go to the gym today, and then eat at the replimat, just for a change, when the door-chime sounded, and out of reflex she said “come in!”. Immediately she cursed herself for it and threw the rag she was using into the water-and-soap bucket with such force that it toppled over. And so it happened that Damar found Ziyal sitting in a puddle of water in the middle of her own living room. 

She laughed. What else was there to do? It was a ridiculous situation. Julian, Kira, Garak, even her father, any of them would have laughed with her. But Damar didn’t. Did he ever laugh? Ziyal couldn’t remember. Not that it mattered one way or the other. 

“What are you doing there?”

“I’m cleaning the floor.”

“You should’t be doing that. There are people to do that. You’re Dukat’s daughter, what are you doing on the floor? Get up.”

You’ve seen me kneeling on the floor in front of you often enough, Ziyal thought. But she obeyed. The dress was clinging heavily to her knees, and she felt wet and dirty. 

“Go and change. I’ll call maintenance.”

“No! I - you know I don’t want people in here - other than you that is, or father. They would want to know what happened, and maybe tell my father, and…”

Ziyal felt the heat of budding panic rising in her body. Although it was early, she wished Damar had brought a bottle with him. What *was* he doing there, so early and without anything to drink? 

“So what happened? Did you throw up?”

Instead of answering, Ziyal held out her bandaged hand to him. He walked across the room, his boots splashing in the soapy puddle. 

“How did you do that? Tinkering with your bookshelves again?” 

There had been a time when Ziyal liked to tinker with her bookshelves, hadn’t there? Before Damar though. How did he even know about that?

“I did it myself.”

Ziyal couldn’t help experiencing a moment of absurd pride, like a child who hands a crayon drawing or a clumsily folded paper bird to her mother: here, look, I did it myself! No one helped me. Am I a grown-up now? 

“Not a very effective way of doing away with yourself”, Damar said, holding her hand in his like a dead weight, as if he were examining a piece of wood or rock. 

Of course, the next logical thing for her to say, the *only* thing for her to say would have been _who said anything about doing away with myself?_

Hadn’t it just been an experiment, a matter of curiosity? Didn’t she have a loving father, a handsome lover, all her life in front of her? But Ziyal was too tired for indignation, too tired even to speak. The craving, the immediate necessity for sleep overcame her like it used to, it fell on her like a slab of stone, and all she wanted was to lie down, right in that puddle of cold, soapy, bloody water. 

“You just have to wait.”

For some reason, Damar’s voice cut through the fog that was beginning to close in around her. Maybe because it was so matter of fact, instead of lecturing, or mocking, or insulting. It was different.

“Wait for what?”

“To die. If you want to die, you just have to stay here and wait.” 

“…What?”

“You do know about the minefield, do you?”

Dukat spoke about the minefield sometimes, as a nuisance or a joke, depending on his mood. Some trick Sisko had played on him. Ziyal didn’t know exactly where or what this minefield was, and in what way it was connected to the station or to the war. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t need to know. If her father wasn’t worried, why should she be? And why should Damar? 

“My father isn’t worried about that. He says he’s taking care of it.”

“Of course he is.” 

Was Damar mocking her father? She couldn’t read his face. Was he telling her he wanted her to die? Did he want to kill her, kill everybody? Did he want to die too? 

_You just have to wait._

It was a comforting thought, a thought that made her feel warm inside, like she hadn’t felt in… like she couldn’t remember feeling, ever. It made her feel like coming home. 

“I’m tired.” 

“It’s not even noon.”

“So? I’m going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She said it because it was what she always said, but she turned her head so Damar wouldn’t see her smile. Maybe there wouldn’t be a tomorrow. Maybe the minefield would just blow them all away while she was sleeping. What a blast that would be. 

You just have to wait, you just have to wait, she kept repeating to herself as she lay down on her bed, she sang it to herself, a beautiful lullaby. 

_You just have to wait. Just wait for me. Please. I am coming._

It was another voice, a voice she knew, and with quite another meaning. She wanted to answer, talk to him, reach out, but sleep already had her in his grip and would not let her go. While she was sleeping, there was nothing to wait for. Nothing and no one.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak makes a choice. So does Dax.

40\. 

Distances, star charts. The warp capability of the shuttles on board. Stealth technology, weapons that might be created or replicated with whatever was available on the Defiant or one of it’s shuttles. The second he read Kira’s message, Garak wasn’t seeing Ziyal’s face anymore. Seeing her face wasn’t going to get him to Deep Space 9, and as of now, that was all that mattered. He would deal with what he found when he got there. There was a price to pay to see her face. Getting there was the price. 

Of course, getting there was only step two. Step one was getting off this ship. 

 

“Garak to Dax.”

“Where are you, Garak? You know, we don’t have a lot of time to do this, so if you really want those pips, you better get here stat.”

“Captain, I’m afraid the - ceremony will have to be postponed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to leave.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure it’s very funny, whatever the joke is. You can tell me all about it later. Right now, you’re required in the mess hall. And I mean right now. That’s an order.”

“There is no joke. I need to leave the Defiant and get to Deep Space 9. Right now.”

“You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“See me in my ready room. Two minutes.”

 

Dax was composed. He had never seen her otherwise, but then, Garak suspected Dax was the kind of person who chose very carefully how to appear to whom. She had had no reason to appear anything other than composed to him. Until now. 

“I’m sorry, Garak, but I can’t allow it.”

“I fear you misunderstand me, Commander. I’m not asking for permission.”

“We’re at war here, and Deep Space 9 is one of the main centres of operations of our enemy. We all left friends behind, Garak, and we all are worried about them, but that doesn’t mean that any of us can just take off and go there whenever we have a bad feeling.”

“I am well aware of that.”

“And I know you are. I just thought it might bear repetition, since you seem to be choosing to blatantly ignore all of it.”

Her expression was taking a decided turn from composed to stern. 

Dax was a good fighter. Garak knew she had extensive training in hand-to-hand combat; she was also an expert with a bat’leth, not to mention eight lifetimes of experience, including one as a psychopath and serial killer. Still, Garak knew he could take her out in an instant. Analysing the weak spots of everyone and everything that surrounded him was a lifelong habit, one he had not given up just because he *had* given up his other habit of actually inflicting damage whenever he could and felt like it. He knew Jadzia’s weak spots, he knew the weak spot of everyone on the ship, he knew the ship’s weak spots, and if he needed to, he could be out of there, on a shuttle and on his way to Deep Space 9 in under five minutes. And he needed to. Oh, he really did.

But a lot of people would get hurt, and some of those who were would not survive. Good people, people he knew, had worked with and fought alongside. People who had offered him understanding, comradeship - belonging. 

He needed to get off the Defiant, but was he willing to pay the price? Was there another option?

 

_Just tell her how you feel, Elim._

He was used to hearing voices, but Ziyal’s voice had never been among them. Until now, whenever he thought about her she had always been just a face, beautiful, distant, something to look at, something to long for. The voice he was hearing was not real, he knew that, but hearing it made *her* real. Her distress, whatever it was - Garak tried to fight off flashes of flowing blood, broken bones, empty eyes - was partly his too, yes, because he cared about her, wanted to help her. But first, it was *hers*. It was not about him, it was about her, and hurting people was not the way to get to her. It was the way to lose her. It was as simple as that. 

And so he told her. What else could he do? It took a while longer than he had expected, since it was another one of those things he had never done before. And although there was no time, and a war raging, and comrades dying, Dax listened. It was easy to talk to her, too easy, and before he knew it, Garak had told her not only about his feelings for Ziyal and how complicated their short story already was, about Kira’s message and why it was imperative that he get there - he had also told her about his father, and Ziyal’s father, and many other things he hadn’t had any intention of revealing to anyone, ever. When he finally stopped, he had the distinct feeling that he would feel very ashamed about this conversation at some time in the future. But that would be then, and this was now. 

“And that is why I need to be on Deep Space 9, you see? Now, as soon as possible. I don’t know exactly what major Kira’s message implies, but she wouldn’t have sent it, not to me, if it wasn’t…”

“Yes. I see.”

Dax was silent for a minute, staring into space right past him. If it hadn’t been Dax he would have thought she had forgotten all about him. But Dax, she wasn’t the forgetful type. 

“I think”, she said finally, “that something may be arranged. But first-“

With two brisk steps she was by his side, and before he could even see what was happening she had fished two pips out of her pocket and pinned them on the collar of his jacket. 

“Elim Garak, do you vow to obey the laws of the United Federation of Planets, to defend its security and to abide to the principles it stands for?” 

“I… yes. Yes, I do.”

“Do you vow to obey Starfleet orders and responsibilities?”

“Yes, I do.”

What else was there to say? He made a mental note to ask someone at some point by what exactly he had sworn. Some kind of holy book? The Starfleet rulebook? His own honour? 

_Or maybe your friends and their lives. Something worth swearing by, don’t you think?_

“For extraordinary services rendered to Starfleet in the course of the Dominion war, I hereby promote you to the field rank of lieutenant, with all the rights and obligations that come with it, and until a ranking officer decides to revoke the commission. Congratulations. There’s some stuff about the principle of non-interference and something about seeking out life, but I’m deciding that’s not relevant right now. You’ll have to read up on that on your way to Deep Space 9. As I understand it, time is of the essence, isn’t it?”

“I - yes. Yes it is. And thank you, Commander. I mean, Captain. I mean…”

“Yes, you keep mixing that up. You can read up on that too. Dax to Worf.”

“Worf here.”

“I need you in the ready room right away. And find Dr. Bashir and bring him with you, will you.”

“Yes, captain.”

She turned to Garak.

“You are now bound by an oath to Starfleet. If you reveal any of the information you are about to receive, if you act in any way against Starfleet or the Federation, there will be consequences. And, like I said, we’re at war. There may not be time for a trial. Do you understand?”

“What information would that be, Commander?”

“We have a plan, Mr. Garak. And as of now, you are a part of it.”


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Will Riker and Jean-Luc Picard of this story are loosely based on the ones depicted by miloowen in the wonderful “A Million Sherds”, including Will’s past trauma and the incident with the cut wrists. You can read it right here on AO3 and I seriously recommend you do it. That said, the nature of the relationship between Riker and Picard is much fuzzier in “The Ruined Places” because I think it suits my story better.

41.

The war had been good for Riker. It had given him focus, drive and, most importantly, the chance to do for others without the risk of seeming intrusive or overbearing. Not to mention the very real and constantly present possibility of dying. That would always be something that William Riker craved, Jean-Luc Picard had no illusions about that. He needed it, it made him thrive. The question was: how aware was Riker himself of that craving, that necessity? Had the war made him forget how fragile he still was? And was that good or bad? 

Picard found himself wishing he could consult with Will’s doctors, and immediately felt irritated about that thought. Here he was, in the middle of a war against a seemingly inexhaustible enemy, a war with no end in sight until just a few days ago, and all he wanted was a little psychotherapy session. Damn you, Kyle Riker, he thought. Damn you straight to hell. 

Since the day he had found Will Riker bleeding from open wrists, surrounded by sherds of glass, Kyle Riker had become Jean-Luc Picard’s own private curse, his reminder that, no matter how ugly things got, it was not himself, his thoughts or even his feelings he should fight. It was his reminder that evil existed and, however flawed he might otherwise be, he was standing against it and he always would. He had even caught himself blaming Kyle Riker for the Dominion on occasion, which was of course absurd - unless Will’s psychopath father had somehow orchestrated the whole Dominion war, and was that really such an absurd thought?

Picard shook his head. This was definitely not the moment for that train of thoughts. He had been hesitating long enough. 

“Picard to Riker.”

“Riker here.”

“Commander, I need to see you in my ready room.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes, sir.”

“No, not in five minutes. Now.”

“… Yes, sir. Riker out.”

Less than a minute later, Riker was standing in front of his desk, trying not to look too pissed without succeeding, probably because he wasn’t trying very hard in the first place. Picard, on the other hand, had no trouble hiding his grin. He had had a very long training. 

“Please sit down, Commander.”

“Yes, sir.”

Riker’s face was clearly saying “is this going to take long?”, but he was smart enough not to say it out loud. 

“I want you to know that what you will hear now is on a strictly need to know basis, and no one outside of this room needs to know for now. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Any last trace of annoyance was immediately wiped from Riker’s face. He was smelling danger. There’s still time, Picard thought. There was still time to tell him some boring strategic detail about fleet deployment and send him on his way, cranky but safe. 

“We are losing this war.”

This time, Riker’s face remained perfectly straight. 

“Yes, sir. I’ll make sure no one else knows.”

“Watch it, Commander.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry. It’s just…”

“I know. Everyone knows, it doesn’t take a genius, does it? Which is why Starfleet Command and Admiral Shanthi have decided on - a different approach.”

“I see.”

“A more - psychological approach.”

“You’re going to beat the Dominion with psychology?”

“Commander…”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m just… well, I will admit, I am a little lost here. Sir.”

“Yes. I can see why.”

Picard paused. How had he let himself get this tangled up? No wonder Will was confused and wanted to laugh at him. How had this become so - difficult?

_Because you care about him. Because you don’t want him to get hurt again._

And when had he started to hear Sandy McBride's voice in his head. That couldn't be healthy, could it? 

He desperately needed a cup of tea. 

“Let me start again. In view of the unsatisfactory results of our current strategy, an alternative plan has been developed which aims to strike directly at the heart of the Dominion.”

“You mean their home planet?”

“No, of course not. All the projections for that scenario always end in a complete debacle. The heart of the Dominion in *this* quadrant, Will.”

Riker’s face was unreadable and his tone was neutral when he said: “Deep Space 9.”

“Exactly, Deep Space 9. Until now it wasn’t a primary target because, although it’s their command centre, there aren’t more than a dozen warships there at any given time. Logistics, supply lines - all of that could be set up anywhere else very rapidly. And thanks to the minefield there is no imminent danger of reinforcements coming in. But Deep Space 9 is more than a command centre. It’s a symbol. A Cardassian symbol. The Jem’Hadar are the ones fighting this war, but the Cardassians are the ones who actually signed a treaty with the Dominion.”

“The Cardassians didn’t sign the treaty. Dukat signed it.” 

“Exactly. Dukat is the face of the Dominion in this quadrant. And we are going to punch the Dominion right in the face.”

“There are civilians on Deep Space 9, sir. People who have nowhere else to go. We can’t ask those people to sacrifice their lives. We can’t just attack Deep Space 9. You don’t know Dukat, you don’t know what he would do to those people, to - anyone near him, anyone on the station. It would be a massacre.”

Damn. He had let himself get excited with the thought of finally inflicting some damage to the Dominion and, for just a second, he had lost sight of who he was talking to, and why. Of course the mention of an attack on Deep Space 9 would upset him. 

_I need to do this. I have to go there, and I have to try to help her, if I can. I can’t tell you why, but in a way, I know I’m responsible for her._

Breathe, Will, he thought. But he didn’t say it. He wasn’t sure what effect it could have. Instead, he tried to keep his voice as modulated and calm as possible, although he doubted he could keep it in G major the way Will’s therapist had. Sandy McBride was a professional and a very smart man, and he was just a starship captain who had a confusing relationship with his First. 

“No one said anything about an attack, Commander. Re-take. We are going to re-take Deep Space 9.”

Riker didn’t answer. He was looking straight in front of him, as if there was a hole in Picard’s chest and he was fixing his gaze on one of the stars he could see through it. His hands were on his knees; he was probably trying to ground himself, find a place of calm inside that would allow him to continue the conversation in a rational manner. 

Picard felt shame for a moment, the sudden need to step out of the room, to give Will some space, as if he had been intruding on an intimate moment. He shouldn’t be here, he thought, not for the first time, followed, as always, by the next thought: but where else would he want to be? 

A second later, Will’s eyes were focused again, focused on him. Even though he was the captain, and older, and clearly in a position of authority, and although he’d known Will Riker for many years and seen him in many very undignified situations, Picard sometimes still felt a kind of inner wavering when the full impact of that look reached him. It seemed to want something from him, something beyond the duties of a captain. But there never seemed to be the time to find out what it was. Or maybe he didn’t want to know. 

“Sabotage?”

“Exactly.”

“Major Kira is heading the operation from the inside?”

“Yes.”

“And she, of course, has had nothing to do with this new strategy that Strafleet Command has come up with.” 

“I wouldn’t know. Rumour has it there might have been one or two messages from Deep Space 9 indicating that now might be a good moment, should such an operation be taken into consideration. But that’s just what it is, a rumour.”

“I see. And why exactly is this a good moment? Deep Space 9 has been under Dominion control for months, and that the war is going badly isn’t exactly fresh news either.”

“That’s all beside the point and not at all why we are having this conversation. I don’t have all the details either, Commander. Need to know, remember?”

“Need to know my ass. It’s the minefield, isn’t it? They’re going to deactivate it. Or it’s going to blow. Or both.”

Picard decided to let it pass. He was worried about the girl, and thoughts about the girl triggered all his other issues, and out came an aggressive Will Riker who thought the didn’t have to be polite because he was going to die anyway. There would be time, further on, to have a conversation with him about how “my ass” was never an appropriate response to anything your commanding officer said. And there would be consequences, which might involve cleaning something big and dirty with a tiny toothbrush. Or, more likely, one of those stiff formal diplomatic functions that Riker hated so much. In a very starched uniform. He looked good in formal wear. 

For now, there was a station to retake, a war to win, and a mission to accomplish. For some reason, Will’s outburst had dispelled Picard’s doubts. 

“Major Kira has indicated that the minefield may be close to - falling, yes. Regrettably, there was no opportunity for her to be more - specific.”

“How wonderfully convenient for her.” 

Picard was surprised to see Will’s sudden bitterness directed at major Kira. Will was seldom bitter. But questions about this, like about so many things, would have to wait. 

“Major Kira will be in charge in this operation, Will. If you have any concerns, I need to hear them now. Starfleet Command needs to know.”

“No sir. Major Kira is a fighter, a good soldier. She’s used to unbeatable odds, she’s a quick thinker, and willing to sacrifice a great deal. For an operation involving stealth, sabotage, guerrilla tactics and a surprise all-out attack, she’s definitely the person we need.” 

“But…?”

“I have a - friend on Deep Space 9, as you know, sir. I told you about her. Ziyal, Dukat’s daughter.”

“Yes.”

Picard was watching Riker carefully, but the Commander’s breathing remained steady.

“Major Kira… I don’t think she’s good for her.”

He looked a bit helpless now, as he sometimes did when he was searching for the words he lacked to explain some emotion or more complex interpersonal relationship. Something other than “my ass”. 

“I see. But you don’t have - a personal problem with major Kira. Like, let’s say, a prior relationship. Anything that would mean you couldn’t work closely with her. 

“No, sir. No sir. No - relationship. No problem at all.”

Picard felt a stab of shame. This was not the time and place to be questioning any relationship of Will’s. 

“I’m going, then.”

It wasn’t a question. It occurred to Picard that Riker had known what this conversation was about and what it’s outcome would be from the start, and that he had enjoyed watching his captain wriggle his way through it. He wouldn’t put it past him…

Then he remembered Will’s face when he had first mentioned Deep Space 9, the shadow over his eyes when he talked about Dukat’s daughter. No, this wasn’t a conversation either of them had enjoyed, and it needed to end soon. 

“Yes, you’re going. Major Kira will coordinate from inside. There will be one other agent from Starfleet infiltrating Deep Space 9. And you will be - backup.”

“Backup. Interesting choice of words. When am I leaving?”

“As soon as you’re ready, you’ll find instructions when you return to your quarters. You’ll take a shuttle and rendezvous with a transport.”

“Communications?”

“Once you’re on the transport, you’re on your own. I’d appreciate a check-in now and then once you’re on DS9, whenever you’re able. But the truth is, you won’t know for sure what the situation is until you’re in there, so…”

“So either you hear from me, or you don’t.” 

“Once you’re in, Kira’s team will have about 72 hours to get everything in place for a successful re-taking of the station, or to abort the operation. So that’s your margin to either signal a ‘yes’, in which case the Enterprise will join Operation Return, or a ‘no’, in which case we’ll coordinate your pick-up.”

“Operation Return. I like that.”

Riker got up.

“Captain?”

“Yes?”

“Couldn’t you have said so in the first place?”

“No, not really.”

“I see. Because you needed to - evaluate me first?”

Picard allowed himself to sigh. 

“I needed to see how you are, yes, Will. I know you have a special interest in going to Deep Space 9, but this is a very volatile situation. And you are…”

“Volatile?”

“Unpredictable at times.”

“Very nicely put, sir. So am I to understand that I have permission to pursue - my special interest once I’m there?”

“Like I said, major Kira will be your direct superior during this operation. I’d strongly recommend to coordinate with her any - specific pursuits of your own.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I mean it, Will. Don’t go off on your own. It will get you killed. You *and* the girl.”

Riker nodded, then turned toward the door. But he turned back before reaching it.

“Sir?”

“Yes, commander.” 

“How did you convince them? Kira doesn’t need any backup, not from the Enterprise.”

Picard didn’t move a muscle. 

“You said you needed to go. I said I would send you there if I ever got the chance.”

“You said you’d send me if you could so so safely.”

“We’re at war, Will. We’re getting shot at every day. This is as safe as it gets.”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“Of course you did.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Go and read your orders, Will. Report to me when you’re done.”

The silence in the ready room felt hollow after Will had left. Or maybe the hollow was inside Picard. Those were going to be the longest 72 hours of his life.


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak takes a shuttle. Bashir gets angry.

42.

_We are not friends. I was bored. Bored to tears by this ugly, cold station, filled with people who hate me and who I most heartily hate back. You were a distraction. Nothing more._

Alone in the shuttle, Garak shook his head so hard he might have snapped his head off. But the memory was stuck to the inside of his skull, bouncing around in there, beating against his conscience. Nothing could make it go away. 

And nothing should. That day, that moment, the person who had spoken those words to a girl who was openly telling him she had nothing else in the world - that was something he needed to remember. For her, and for himself. Whoever he was going to be after all of this was done and over, he needed to take that with him. 

He asked the computer again about the ETA and the female voice replied: “Arrival at destination in three hours, thirty-two minutes, eight seconds.” He could have sworn he detected a tone of irritation, but that was nonsense, of course. The computer didn’t care if he asked three or three hundred or three hundred thousand times. For a second, he considered asking just one more time, to spite the thing. Then he took a deep breath and leaned back. 

“Computer, resume music selection. Please.”

Eia, Mater, fons amoris  
me sentire vim doloris  
fac, ut tecum lugeam.

_What if, when truth and beauty come together, they create pain?_

That’s what she had said when they had first listened to this music together. He had wanted to kiss her then, but he didn’t. He didn’t know if she was right or not, he wasn’t sure about anything that night. But now he knew. And he couldn’t wait to tell her. 

 

He had wanted to know how to stop the pain. That’s why he needed to talk to doctor Bashir before leaving. He wanted a recipe, a method, a magic word. He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

“She’s suffering. She’s in pain, she must be, Kira wouldn’t have sent that message otherwise.”

Bashir’s usually open and pleasant face was unreadable. Garak was suddenly very aware that this was his superior officer now, and if he decided that for some reason the newly minted Lieutenant Elim Garak was not to be allowed to go on this mission, Dax would certainly listen to him. 

“That doesn’t mean she wants her suffering to end.”

“Of course she does. Everyone wants that. It’s a law of nature.”

“Yes, it is. And you know what’s stronger than nature? Habit. Suffering is what she’s used to, Garak. It’s what she knows. It makes her feel comfortable. It makes her feel like she knows who she is. You of all people should know this. Why do you think I sent you to her in the first place?”

 _She’s dying, you know._ That’s what the doctor had said, and Garak had pretended not to be interested, to be annoyed by one more stupid human distraction. When the truth was that he could still feel her in his arms, kicking and screaming, he could still feel her eyes on him. 

Did the doctor know that then? Why hadn’t they talked about this before? All those days in the camp, and he still had no idea who this man really was. And as things stood, it didn’t look like there would be time to find out any time soon. 

“So what you are implying is that whatever or whoever it is that’s making her suffer, it is happening with her consent.”

“Consent is not the word I’d use. Non-resistance, more likely. A passive acceptance. But anyway, like I said, I do feel rather uncomfortable formulating a diagnosis based on a one-sentence message.”

“You were her doctor, you know her better than anyone.”

“I was never her doctor. She consistently refused treatment, right from the start, remember? All I did was try to be her friend. And if there is one person who knows her better than most here, I’d wager that would be you.” 

“I was never her friend. I never cared for her the way I should have. I never - saw her.”

And yet, all he could do now was see her: he caught some movement with the corner of his eye and he was sure it was her walking past; he felt a tingling at the back of his neck and felt her looking at him. Even right now in this very moment he could feel her breathing beside him. A heavy breathing it was, laboured, as if the mere act of inhaling and exhaling was an immense effort. 

How typical of you, Elim Garak, he thought. Your big emotions, your sudden insights, your regrets, it all comes too late. Looking his father in the face and seeing who he was and what he had made of his son; understanding what the Obsidian Order was, what it stood for, and the decision to walk away from it; the realisation of the coldness and loneliness that surrounded him; and finally, becoming aware of such things as friendship, love, connection; the chance of a future. It had always come too late. 

“I don’t have much time here, doctor. I need you to tell me what to expect, how to help her.”

Bashir sighed. He looked very tired. Garak wondered when he had slept or eaten for the last time. Doctors in wars: always telling others to rest, never doing it themselves. 

“All right then. I’ll give you my best shot, but I’m warning you, you’re not going to like it.”

“That, my dear doctor, is a given.”

“She will hate you. She was on the first, tentative state of recovery when you - well, left, and her father, a very dominant, extremely manipulative and quite insane man, came back into her life. My guess is, and note the emphasis on the word *guess*, that by now she has probably constructed some kind of mythology around Dukat, in essence brainwashing herself as a survival mechanism. He would have become her god, and she would be telling herself she is perfectly content and happy just basking in his presence, while at the same time falling back into some of her previous self-destructive behaviour, excessive exercising, not eating, not sleeping. There may be some form of self-harm, too, reckless behaviour, substance abuse in one form or the other, all indirect suicide attempts of course, escalating over time and becoming apparent enough to cause major Kira’s alarm. What you need to do is find out if there is still a spark of the old Ziyal in her, the Ziyal we knew who wanted to get better.”

Again there was the image of her in the lilac dress, her face turned towards him, his hands on her back, closing what seemed like a million tiny golden hooks. And the word *if*. *If* that Ziyal still existed, if he hadn’t killed her with his words, with his cowardice. He didn’t want to think of that word *if* now. He couldn’t afford to. 

“I understand.”

“I don’t think you do. I don’t even know how you’ll get close to her. Not only that her father most probably has her under constant surveillance, but if you manage to get to her-“

“I will. Believe me, doctor, I will.”

“-*if* you manage to get close to her, she will scream bloody murder. She will try to harm you, even kill you.” 

“Of course. Because of what I did to her.”

“No, Garak. Because of what was done to her. No matter how horrible you were, and you *were* horrible and harmful, what you did to her was only a small part of what she has had to endure. And no matter what you feel now or what you hope she might feel for you in the future, you are not what matters most to her now.”

“But I can help her.”

“I don’t know.”

He wanted to shake Bashir, shout at him to look at him - it’s me, Garak. It’s Ziyal we’re talking about. Don’t be a doctor now. Be my friend. If I’ve ever needed a friend, it’s now. 

“Are you telling me not to go? If you’re saying that I could harm her, make her worse…”

And that’s when the doctor got angry. 

“I don’t know! I’m in the blind here, same as you! All I know is that she was a very sick girl when I last saw her, but she was slowly getting to the point where she was willing to work on getting better. You had a part in that. And then it all went to shit, and you had a big part in that too. The only thing that I know is that she’ll be in a lot of pain, and people in pain are unpredictable.”

Garak was starting to feel very tired, and a bit short of breath, and hotter than he should be. He felt, actually, as if he was back in that hole in the wall in Internment Camp 371. Breathe, Garak, breathe. 

Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to ask the good doctor for his professional opinion. And maybe it was unfair to ask for Julian Bahir’s help and support as a friend. What had made him think he even deserved help and support? He should have just gone there and let his instinct guide him. 

_Yes, because acting on instinct has always worked out so wonderfully for you._

It was her voice, and she sounded just like he remembered her, having lunch at the replimat, or sitting in her quarters talking, listening to music, not doing much of anything. She sounded - happy. He could see her, exactly as she would have looked saying those words to him, a half smile, her eyes laughing, taking delight in making fun of The Great and Mysterious Elim Garak. 

And just this once, in that single moment, the memory of her didn’t make him feel guilty and ready to die, but absurdly hopeful. But then, wasn’t hope always absurd? She had been happy, he had seen it. Why couldn’t she be happy again?

Elim Garak breathed. And then he breathed again.

“Please, Julian. Just tell me what I need to do.”

Something had come lose in the doctor’s face after his angry outburst. He was still looking tired, but also somehow closer, as if he’d woken up from a deep sleep and was slowly remembering who and where he was. 

“Garak. You have to understand that treating a person in Ziyal’s state of mind - what I *assume* will be Ziyal’s state of mind - takes months, years, and in some aspects, the rest of her life. She’ll never be cured exactly, she’ll only learn to manage her illness.”

“I don’t have months or years.” 

The question about the rest of her life I’ll have to ask another time, he thought, and some slight glint in Bashir’s eyes told him that the doctor was, as he often did, again guessing his thoughts. How did he do that? 

“I have a couple of days at most. And I know I am not going to cure her. You said you weren’t even sure I could help her, you don’t know what state she’s in. Tell me then how to - ascertain her state of mind, at least. How can I know if she *can* be helped?”

“First, there’s one thing I need to know, and I need you to answer this honestly: what would you do if you get there and you see that there’s no help for her, that she’s too far gone? Would you just leave her be, and concentrate on your part in Operation Return?”

Garak thought about saying the words, of course I know where my priorities lie, I am a Starfleet officer now, but he knew the doctor would know he was lying, so he just looked at him. Dax had never asked him that question. Smart, smart woman. But then, she wasn’t a doctor, and she wasn’t his friend. Not like Julian Bashir was. 

“Yes. That’s what I thought.”

“Doctor, if-“

“No, it’s all right, Garak. It’s fine. I just - I think I just wanted to see if you would lie to me. I suppose you really have changed.”

“As the saying goes, the jury is still out on that, my dear doctor. Meanwhile, I believe there’s a shuttle I have to board in about five minutes.”

“Yes. Right. Well, as I said, you’re not going to like it. Violence. You’ll have to use violence.”

“Doctor?”

“Restrain her. Confine her. Take her away from her support system. Which, naturally, she won’t like at all.”

“I think I’ll be able to do that.”

“Are you sure? The one episode you saw that one time in sickbay - that’s nothing compared to what she can do. And what she’ll say. People in this state can get quite vicious.”

“She’ll try to get me to kill her.”

“In essence.”

“I’ll handle it. And then? After I have her - confined?” 

“Detox.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. If there’s some kind of substance abuse involved, which I believe is probable, like I said. Make sure wherever you take her there’s a bathroom, cleaning appliances, and several changes of clothes. And lots of fluids.”

“I see. What if she isn’t… if there aren’t any - substances?”

“You’ll have to detox her anyway. The body is easy, what’s really poisoned is her mind. ‘I’m nothing. I’m dirty. I’m guilty. I deserve to die.’ That’s what she’s thinking, day and night, over and over. You’ll have to convince her to fight those thoughts. To believe that they are not the truth.”

“And how do I do that?”

“You’ve been through all that. You’ll know.”

And all of a sudden, Julian Bashir smiled, and it was a bit like the sun coming up. For a split second, Garak was tempted to tell the doctor that he was beautiful when he smiled and he should do it more often, but then he decided it was probably not appropriate. Maybe some other time. 

The doctor took one step and put his hand on Garak’s shoulder. 

“If there is someone who can help her now, then it’s you.” 

“Do you really believe that?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. And now go. Your shuttle’s waiting. Go and bring her back. And try not to get killed.”

Halfway down the corridor, Garak heard Bashir shout: “And try not to kill Kira!” He turned around and saw Worf standing next to the doctor. He raised his hand, and the doctor and Worf raised their hands as well. Then the door to the shuttle bay closed behind him, and they were gone. 

 

Quando corpus morietur,  
fac, ut animæ donetur  
paradisi gloria. Amen.

The music stopped. 

“Computer, what’s the ETA to destination?”

“Two hours, fifty-three minutes, twenty-two seconds.” 

He looked out at the stars streaming by. Too slow, too slow. 

“Computer, translate the last verse of Stabat Mater into standard English.”

“While my body here decays,  
may my soul Thy goodness praise,  
Safe in Paradise with Thee.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought. Resume music selection.”

“Do you wish to play the same selection?”

“Yes. Same selection.”

The voices rose again.

Stabat mater dolorosa  
juxta Crucem lacrimosa,  
dum pendebat Filius.

Truth and beauty. What they make is love, he thought. And pain is part of it, but only a part. There is so much more. 

That was what he was going to tell her. And she would listen, and she would understand. She had to. Because if she didn’t, it would mean that Tain had been right all along. And a world where Enabran Tain was right about anything at all was not worth fighting for.


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak does some housework and meets someone unexpected.

43.

She was not there. 

Garak knew that Ziyal was not in her quarters, he had checked the station’s internal sensors first and was trying very hard to ignore that she was, in fact, in the quarters of Dukat’s aide Damar. For how long? How often? No matter. He would deal with that later.

It was more than her physical absence from the room, she was absent in a more absolute sense. The last time he had been in her quarters (had that been when they had listened to Stabat Mater, or had there been some other occasion after that? And what kind of person was he that he couldn’t remember?) there had been a unique quality to that room, something that made it not only specifically hers, but also a place apart, unlike any other. There had been books on the table, the sofa, the bed, clothes lying around, and he had had to forcibly refrain from starting to sort books into shelves, fold sweaters and put dresses on hangers. But although he hated disorder of any kind, he hadn’t felt repelled by this. On the contrary, as soon as he stepped in, he knew he wanted to stay. It was - warm. Those books that she threw around everywhere, he could feel they were loved, they were being read and cried over and laughed at and lived with. And those clothes on the floor had been chosen or discarded over a particular mood, a feeling, a fleeting thought, a fantasy. And all of that was in her room. She was her room, and her room was her. 

Even when she was dying, she was filling it with life. 

It was different now. Grey and ugly and cold it was, like all the rest of the rooms on this godforsaken station. There were still clothes on the floor, but they looked like the shed skins of reptiles now, and there was a thick and sticky coat of dust gathering on the books. They too looked dead, as books get when no one reads or even opens them. There were plates with moldy crusts of unidentifiable food on them, and bottles, bottles everywhere. 

There might be substance abuse of some kind, the doctor had said. It looked like he had been right. Not that Garak could remember any instance of the doctor actually being wrong.

And then there was the smell. It’s the rotten food, and all this dust, Garak thought. And Kanar, that most disgusting of beverages. For all that was unholy, that gunk would make any person’s IQ sink by a hundred points just by smelling it. 

Yes, Kanar smelled bad. But it wasn’t just that. There was something else, something very distinct. Something Garak recognised from another, distant life. Sex. The room smelled of sex. The kind of sex that was angry, and brutal, and desperate. 

Garak repressed the urge to scream, or smash something, or both. If this had been a house planet-side, his first instinct would have been to tear all the windows open and just throw everything out. Since that wasn’t an option, he just started gathering the dirty plates and throwing them into the recycling unit, trying to breathe through his mouth. And although it would have been relatively easy, and probably sensible, to rig the station’s sensors so they wouldn’t detect his presence in the room, he didn’t bother. Judging by the state of the place, no one cared very much about Ziyal’s comings and goings, what she did or who was in her room, and judging by the number of bottles, if anyone asked her she herself wouldn’t remember if she had been there or not at any given time.

As for Dukat - if it was true that he had his daughter under constant surveillance, as Julian had said, if he had knowingly let it come to this, Garak hated him even more that he ever did before. Let him detect me, he thought, banging one bottle after the other into the recycling unit. Let him come. Let him send that big dumb aide of his. Or, better yet, let them both come. Two birds with one stone. Won’t that be fun. 

That was when he heard the noise outside the door. Not the chime, not a knock, not even a voice or the sound of someone breathing. Just a very slight shuffling - not even a shuffling, more like - a presence. Someone had very carefully stepped in front of the door and was now standing there, listening to what was going on inside. Nothing anyone would really have heard, because it was not even a sound. But Garak wasn’t anyone. 

I didn’t mean that, he thought, rather incoherently. He started to feel an unwelcome tightness in his chest. Not an hour ago, in the shuttle, hadn’t he been reflecting about how so many insights in his life had come too late? Well, what if that was really Dukat or Damar, or both of them in front of the door, just like he wanted? Maybe backed up by a dozen or two of armed guards? What if he couldn’t take them all? What if they killed him? 

If they got him now, if he never made it to her, whatever happened to her would be his fault. Again. I’m sorry, Ziyal, he thought, turning towards the door as it started to open. I’m sorry. 

“Mr. Garak, I believe.”

It took Garak a few seconds to gather enough saliva in his mouth to answer. As the door closed behind him, the very imposing man with the very blue eyes looked at him with a sort of curious attention. 

“Commander Riker.”

“Yes. Oh, I’m sorry, it’s Lieutenant Garak now, isn’t it. I beg your pardon.”

Was he winking? No, he probably wasn’t. Starfleet officers didn’t wink. Well, Enterprise officers didn’t wink, not from what Garak had heard. A very tight ship, that. A captain with several very large sticks up his rear, that had been the word on the Defiant. 

All of which was completely irrelevant now, of course. 

“Never mind. It’s just a technicality, really.”

“No, it isn’t.” Riker’s eyes were kind, but his face was very serious. “Never say that, Lieutenant. A field commission is a high honour and a great responsibility. It is not given lightly and it should not be taken lightly.”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir.”

When he had first said it to Dax, he had felt strange, a bit ridiculous, as if he or Dax or someone should burst out laughing any minute. “Yes, sir.” Now, it just flew out of his mouth without a second thought. Yes, sir. 

So this is what it’s like, he thought. I really am in Starfleet now. 

Riker acknowledged him with a nod and moved further into the room. Garak had already thrown the plates and most of the bottles into the recycling unit, but the clothes and books were still all over the place. Riker bent forward and carefully picked up the book lying next to him on the coffee table. As he blew the dust away, it got into his nose and he coughed and sneezed. Then he turned back to show it to Garak. 

“Middlemarch. She was reading this when I last saw her.”

“Yes, I remember. She was fascinated with the protagonist, a woman with a very peculiar name, what was it again…?” 

“Dorothea.

“Yes. Dorothea Brooke.”

“A very beautiful and generous woman who nearly ruins her life trying to reach a spiritual ideal of perfection.”

They looked at each other. Now, Garak thought, would be the time to ask this Riker person what exactly he was doing there - on Deep Space 9, in Ziyal’s quarters, holding her books as if he had a right to it, talking about her as if he knew her so well. Sure, Garak had seen them talk that one time when Riker had been on the station. It was at Quark’s, Ziyal had been with Kira, and Riker was smiling with his profusion of very white teeth, with Kira desperately smiling back and fluttering her eyelids like there was no tomorrow. Ziyal had seemed rather annoyed, which had given Garak an odd sense of satisfaction. Not that he had been remotely interested in Ziyal back then, or course, other then her being the slightly unhinged and admittedly quite dazzling daughter of a man who hated him with the passion of a madman. 

Had there been more talks, in other restaurants or bars, maybe in her quarters, or his? More smiles, until Ziyal wasn’t annoyed anymore and had started to smile back? Hadn’t it been, Garak now recalled, precisely after Riker left that Ziyal had that terrible breakdown in sickbay, and then had gotten so ill she couldn’t even speak, and he practically had to spoon-feed her for several days?

_Mother? Where’s my mother? Why is everyone shouting?_

Not sick. Dying. She was dying then, because that was what she wanted. To end her own life. Like she was doing right now. Like they all had, at one point or another: Garak, Riker, maybe even Bashir, possibly Worf. 

There was nothing to ask, Garak realised. Riker was here for her. Like he was. Because he cared. Because he had been there and back. Because he knew. 

“I assume we have a plan, sir?”

“Oh yes. We do indeed.”


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal waits for destruction. Then some people show up, and things get confusing.

44\. 

So she waited. It would happen, she knew it would. Something would go wrong, the mines they were trying to deactivate in the wormhole would blow and it would all end. All she needed was one big explosion, and it was so close, so close… 

She waited and waited, for weeks and months and years it seemed like, although it was probably only a few days. Who was counting anymore. Time started to move very slowly, like it did back when she was at the Breen camp, when every day was like year, moving was like wading through a sea of needles, and breathing seemed to take air away from her. 

She could feel the seconds piling up around her. She hadn’t been to her quarters in days. Why should she? Damar always came back here, and he brought drinks, and food (although food didn’t really seem to agree with her stomach anymore), and sometimes even what passed for a kind word. He said things like “you should put something on, you’ll catch your death”, threw blankets on her, things like that. Yesterday, he had replicated some soup for her. It was Bajoran, very spicy, and as soon as he left she had flushed it down the toilet, but the whole thing left her baffled. He had never done anything like that. Why would he do it now? Why would he care? 

A couple of days before that (or had it been yesterday too?), her father had dropped by. When she heard his voice through the room intercom, for a second she thought about running into the bedroom to get dressed, comb her hair, brush her teeth. But she didn’t. She was just too tired. When he asked her how she was, why she hadn’t been to her quarters, she told him she was sick and Damar was taking care of her. 

“If you’re sick you should go to the doctor.”

“It’s just one of those human flu things, I’ll be fine. I just have to sweat it out, you know.” 

“Then you should come to stay with me until you feel better. I should be the one taking care of you.”

“I know you want to, father, but you are so busy. So is Kira, so is everyone. And Damar is too, I know, but he doesn’t have as much - responsibility, does he? And besides, he likes me.”

She hoped the expression on her face was a smile.

“I see. And do you like him, Ziyal?”

“Oh yes. He’s wonderful. So - romantic.”

“Romantic. I see. And we are still talking about Damar here, are we?”

She couldn’t read his face. Ziyal closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, Dukat was gone. He had never liked to be near sick people.

The hours continued to pass, and even though Ziyal turned the environmental controls and the lights to maximum, it was still getting darker and colder. Kanar didn’t help either. It took her much more liquor now to even begin to feel some hint of relief, and then the good part lasted less and less. She wasn’t handling it better, like Damar had promised; the headaches and the nausea were still there, permanent companions now. She just had to take more of it. 

Every day, she slept until noon, fought off the nausea, and when the headache was reduced to a moderate background hum, the afternoon crept in, and with it, the voices. She could not keep them at bay. It wasn’t just one voice like before, Tora’s voice, or Garak’s, or even her own. That had been bad enough. Now they came all together, and there were more: her father, her mother, William, Bashir, Kira, Quark, Damar, Odo, Tialla, Lamar Torel, all the prisoners at the camp, the ones that had lived and the ones that died, the ones who had hurt her, and the ones she had hurt. They were screaming, whispering, commanding, barking. They were demanding.

_You should have listened to me.  
Why didn’t I kill you?  
I don’t recognise you, you are not my daughter.  
I’m coming for you, Tora Ziyal.  
It’s not over.   
I’m dead. I don’t want to be dead.  
You are worthless.   
You are a murderer.  
We will find you._

_WE WILL FIND YOU._

She didn’t have a chance. To make them go away, even for a few minutes, she needed Kanar. And Kanar came with Damar. And Damar came with sex. So this was how it was, and how it would be until the wormhole finally, finally exploded, or imploded, or whatever it was that wormholes did, and took it all away. 

_Coward. Wimp. Worthless excuse for a person. Why don’t you do it yourself? Why don’t you take those little knives you love so much and slit your throat open? You can sit yourself in Damar’s bathtub if it’s the mess you’re worried about. Just end this._

That was Tora. Oh how she had missed her. Oh how she hated her voice in her mind. 

I will do it, Ziyal thought. I will. It’s just for now. I can’t do it just yet. I need this now. 

_What is it that you need, you pathetic little worm?_

You weren’t here, you don’t understand. 

_Oh, my darling, my lovely girl, I understand better than you think._

 

“Garak?”

It happened all the time now: she heard his voice so clearly that she thought he was in the room with her. He was dead dead dead and still she wouldn’t believe it. Ziyal didn’t and Tora didn’t. Her body didn’t and her mind didn’t and her heart, if such a thing existed, didn’t believe it either. Even the voices in her head whispered he’s not dead, and she wanted to scream back: so what?! What is that to me? Didn’t he tell me I was a joke, a mistake, nothing and no one he could ever be interested in? Didn’t his look pierce me so that I am still bleeding inside? What is it to me if he is out there somewhere, walking, talking, laughing, thinking of anything but me? If I was to see him again, what could I do except beg him to finish the job? 

The only other possibility was killing him first. If she killed Garak, and then her father, and then Damar, and then Kira, and then everyone else, maybe then there would finally be silence. Maybe she shouldn’t be sitting around, waiting for destruction. Maybe she should be the destruction. 

She laughed. As if she ever could be any more than what she was now. As if she would ever leave this room again. 

“You need to come with me now, Ziyal.”

Again his voice in the dark room. It was getting closer, and Ziyal felt a shiver run down her spine. Her mouth was suddenly dry. When was Damar coming back with more Kanar, when? 

“Ziyal? I’m going to turn on the lights now, ok?”

“Go away!”

She had sworn to herself that she’d never talk back to the voices in her head, not aloud. Everyone has a line they don’t allow themselves to cross, and that was hers. But this, this was too much. If she was crazy enough to hear Garak in her room offering to turn on the lights, she was clearly crazy enough to tell him to go away. 

“Computer, lights, 20 percent.”

Ziyal pressed her eyes shut, thinking I’m not going to look, I’m not going to look. The lights were not coming on, they couldn’t, because no one had said anything, no one was there. No one. 

“Ziyal?”

She opened her eyes. His face was very close and she felt like screaming, but there was nothing inside her: no voice, no words, no thoughts. 

“I’m very sorry, my dear. Please don’t be afraid. It’s only me.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Ziyal had no idea who was using her mouth and her voice to speak those words, but whoever it was, she surrendered herself to her gladly. 

“Good, that’s good.”

She was wearing a sleeveless nightgown under the blanket she was wrapped in, the kind that Damar favoured and she had always considered silly until she stopped caring one way or the other. There was nowhere to conceal her little knives. She didn’t even remember where she had seen them last. Maybe she had thrown them away. It didn’t matter. 

He was so close, not sitting, not kneeling, no, balancing precariously on the balls of his feet. He would be down in a second, and dead the next. No blood, no marks anywhere. It would all end the way it had started: with a body on a carpet. 

She leaned forward as if to kiss him, or maybe whisper something in his ear: _where have you been? What took you so long?_ She smiled, shifted her weight carefully - and everything went black. When she opened her eyes, she was lying with her back flat on the floor, Garak leaning over her. He didn’t look particularly worried. He is eyes were mirrors, like they had been when she had last seen him. 

“I believe you moved too fast, my dear. When is the last time you had something to eat?”

“Don’t call me that!”

Her voice sounded shrill, like that of a spoiled little child. She hated it, and she hated him. 

_Let’s kill him, then._

Ziyal’s right leg rolled in toward her chest and then shot out, her heel impacting on his throat. Garak made a gurgling sound and leaned back, not really falling since he had already been on his knees. His hands groped towards Ziyal, but she was already standing over him. Black spots were dancing across her field of vision and she felt like she might throw up any moment, but she didn’t care. Throwing up on him was just the first of a long list of very disagreeable things she planned to do to Elim Garak. 

“Stand up”, she said, kicking him again squarely on the side of his head, and regretting it instantly. Such a stupid move, so easy for him to grab her leg and bring her down hard. But he just rolled over silently, coming to rest just in front of the door. _Wherever he has been, whatever he was doing there, it must have made him stupid_ , Tora thought. _Good for us._

Garak was fumbling with his chest and Ziyal felt a pang of disappointment. He wasn’t going to die of a heart attack now, was he? She was considering her next kick, probably in the stomach, to keep him from talking for a while longer. That was when she saw the door starting to open. 

_Oh you idiot, you fool, you useless creature. It wasn’t a heart attack. It was a fucking communicator._

_Calm down. Breathe. You can take them. You can take all of them. You can finish them and then leave this place. We’ll leave together. As we should have done a long time ago._

“Ziyal. It’s good to see you again.”

Again, there were no words for what she was seeing. Again, she was wrong. There were words to say, it seemed. Three, to be precise. 

“William fucking Riker.”

“Commander William fucking Riker, if you don’t mind.”

“If we’re all done with the pleasantries, I suggest we get moving. We can’t stay here.” 

Kira and Odo had moved into the room behind Riker. The door closed. Kira took a step towards Ziyal, Ziyal took a step back. Kira stopped. 

For a moment no one said anything, until they heard a chuffing noise from the floor where Garak was trying to get up. Odo held out a hand to help him up and Riker said “Are you all right, Lieutenant?”, his eyes never leaving Ziyal.

Which Lieutenant?, Ziyal thought.

“Which Lieutenant?”, Kira said.

“Is it possible, Lieutenant Garak, that the news concerning your field commission didn’t reach major Kira?”

“I really couldn’t say, Commander.” 

“Field commission? You cannot be serious! Whose brilliant idea was that?” 

“Major, this is not the time.”

Everyone was screaming, but they seemed far away. Only he was close, how did he get so close again, and his voice was low, as it had been before. She was sitting on the sofa, as she had before, and again she closed her eyes. Maybe the last minutes hadn’t really happened. Maybe she was already too far gone to know the difference. 

“Ziyal? You need to come with me.”

“Yes. I know. You said that before.”

“You didn’t want to before. Do you want to now?”

“Where are we going?”

It wasn’t Garak who answered. It was Odo.

“I know just the place.”


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone goes for a walk. Kira and Garak have a moment.

45\. 

They walked in silence, as if through deep water. 

Just minutes ago there had been shouting, kicking, general chaos. Too many people doing and saying too many things in a space much too small to contain it all. Now, as they moved along the corridors, led by Odo, it was as if each of them was shrinking back into themselves. The station seemed very big and strangely empty - of course, Odo knew exactly where they should walk when in order not to meet anyone, but Ziyal didn’t think of that until much later. She would always remember that walk more as a dream than reality, because how could it be real? Hadn’t she been determined to kill Garak just now? Didn’t she have him on the floor, writhing in pain and wasn’t her whole energy, the little she had left, concentrated on inflicting even more pain? And now, not ten minutes later, here she was, walking meekly by his side without a sign of struggle, inward or outward, and fighting the feeling that were it not for his hand holding hers, she might just float away, never to be seen again. And where or how, except in a dream, would Garak’s hand have been trembling? 

On and on they walked, it seemed to Ziyal that they must have crossed and re-crossed the whole station at least a couple of times. Sometimes Odo motioned for them to stop or to hurry up, and Ziyal wondered how it could be that no one heard them: their breathing was so loud, she heard their steps ringing through the corridors like a whole army, and the beating of her heart was louder than anything else - the very stars she glimpsed through airlocks here and there seemed to be pulsating with it. 

A long strange walk it was, and yet Ziyal wished it would never end. If only she could walk like this forever, holding Garak’s hand (Garak who was not dead), Kira and William at her back, Odo guiding them, through empty corridors, turning and turning, never arriving anywhere. And why not? If it was a dream, who said she had to wake up? And what was death, if not a dream one never woke up from? Maybe her wish had come true, only she didn’t know it yet… 

“In here.”

Odo had stopped in front of a door that looked like any other cargo bay door. Ziyal thought Garak squeezed her hand a little bit tighter. 

“Odo, there are certain - things that we are going to need.”

“Yes, I know. I received that - information. It’s all in there.” 

Odo looked back briefly at Riker, then punched in the access code and the door opened. The inside looked like a cross between a prison cell, a hospital room and a hotel room on Risa. There was a biobed with arm and legstraps, beside it a table with a computer and several trays with vials, and further back a huge pink sofa piled high with pillows. In one corner there was also a tall locker and leaning against it, a broom and a mop in a bucket. There was also a replicator inserted into one of the walls, but it looked strange and tentatively lit, as if it might not be working properly.

It was still a cargo bay though, and in between all those items there was a lot of empty space, all of it grey and shabby and seeping into Ziyal’s mind like ice-cold water. And that mop. For some reason, it wasn’t the straps, or the vials, or the unidentifiable stains on the walls that paralysed Ziyal with terror. It was that mop, standing in it’s bucket, crooked, still. Waiting. 

Garak stepped into the room, and she followed him. _Like a little scared animal_ , Tora hissed in her ear. _Like a whore he’s paid for to play with as he pleases. Look at all his toys. What fun you’re going to have. Just like in the camp, remember? With all the guys, that was fun too, wasn’t it? Of course it was. You liked it. Because you’re a whore. That’s what you are._

“I still think this is completely unacceptable.”

Kira was trying to sound furious, but standing there with Commander Riker towering over her, to Ziyal she looked somehow - defeated. Well, that’s two of us, she thought. 

“What are you going to do to her?”

“Major, we’ve been over this. We’re not going to do anything to her. Ziyal needs help. So does Captain Sisko. And we don’t have time to argue about this.”

“I’m not going to leave you here with her.”

“I won’t be staying with Ziyal for now. Lieutenant Garak will. You and I, Major, are going to access section A-51 and get a start on disabling the station’s defence systems. And Odo is going to make sure no one knows what any of us is doing for as long as possible.” 

He looked at each of them in turn. 

“Everyone clear? Then let’s do this.”

He was looking at Ziyal when he said it, whether by intention or by accident, and she couldn’t help feeling a brief flicker of hope. If William Riker wanted her to do something, even though she didn’t know what it was, maybe it meant she wasn’t going to die after all. Maybe she wasn’t meant to. Because when Will Riker told you something, you just did it. And all of a sudden, in that huge grey room, with Garak’s hand still holding hers, that seemed to matter again. 

Riker started to walk out of the room, with Kira and Odo following. At the threshold, Kira stopped and turned. Ziyal heard Riker exhale sharply. He was getting impatient, and Ziyal tensed her body against the loud voices, the ugly words, the fighting. The determination she had briefly felt seeped out of her, and somewhere inside her mind, Tora was smiling. 

Garak let go of her hand, took a step forward, and took Kira’s hand instead. 

“It will be all right, Nerys. Really.” Ziyal had never heard him call her Nerys before. But she didn’t even react, she just stood there, looking at him, letting him hold her hand. 

“I talked to Julian, and I know what to do. I’ve been through this before.”

“You’ve been…?”

“Oh yes.”

“And you promise…?”

“I promise. On my honour as a Cardassian *and* as a Starfleet Officer. Which may not mean much to you, but, surprisingly enough, it does to me.”

One, two seconds passed. Then Kira squared her shoulders, turned towards the door and looked at the two men waiting for her there. 

“Shouldn’t we start moving? It’s not like we have time to spare, do we?”

For one moment, Riker and Odo shared the exact same grin. Then they all left, and the door closed behind Garak and Ziyal.


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal stands, then lies down, then sits.

46.

“My father will find you, and he will kill you.”

It wasn’t Tora who said it, it was Ziyal, and she had no idea why. Maybe because she always thought that was what she should say to Garak if they ever where in a situation like this. Which was what exactly? Had they kidnapped her? But if they had, she wouldn’t have walked here with them voluntarily, wouldn’t she? And was this a cell? What had Garak and Julian talked about? And if this was supposed to be some kind of treatment for her, why wasn’t he here? Garak was no doctor. And who had decided she was ill, anyway? 

“If you let me go now, I won’t say anything. He won’t know.”

“Oh he will know, my - he will know, believe me.”

“Look, I don’t care about the sabotage and about Sisko coming here and everything going to hell. I don’t care about anything, and I won’t say anything. I just want to be alone, in my room, don’t you see? After that, I don’t care what happens.”

“I know. I’m sorry, I can’t let you do that. I can’t leave you alone.”

“Why?”

Instead of answering, Garak walked over to the biobed and started riffling through the vials arranged on the table beside it. Ziyal thought about smashing his head into that table, how the vials would break and tear into his skin, how the blood would flow down his face. She didn’t move. 

“Did Julian say that? That you couldn’t leave me alone? That you had to bring me here?”

“Yes. And Commander Riker.”

“You take orders from him now, do you?”

“Apparently.” 

“You take orders from everyone. Poor Garak. What did they promise you? A clean slate? You become an upstanding federation citizen and everything’s forgotten?”

“There is no clean slate for people like us, Ziyal. You should know that.”

“I am nothing like you.”

For the first time since she stepped into the room, Ziyal felt as if it is actually her saying the words coming out of her mouth. She was trying to keep herself from shaking, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to control it for much longer. It wasn’t just the cold (and why was it so cold in this place; didn’t Garak hate cold as much as she did?); it was as if she was losing control over all her limbs.

_You know what you need._

Yes, she knew it. She needed a drink. Just one drink. And she knew what she needed to do to get it: first, find out what Garak wanted, and then give it to him.

“Look, Garak, it doesn’t have to be like this. Why don’t we go somewhere… nicer?”

A reassuring, or better still, a slightly insinuating smile would have been nice to go with that last affirmation, but Ziyal wasn’t at all sure that she could produce one. 

“I mean, you *did* just come back from the dead, didn’t you? Where have you been? What were you doing? I - I’ve been missing you, you know?”

“I know you have. I’ve missed you too. More than you know.”

“You know me. You know I can be reasonable. We don’t need all - this.”

Ziyal gestured to the biobed without looking at it, afraid that the mere sight of it would make her start to scream. And if she started to scream, she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop. 

“I know you will be reasonable. But we have yet quite a way to go before we get there.”

“LET ME OUT OF HERE! RIGHT NOW!!”

So much for staying calm and not screaming. Ziyal looked around for something, anything she could throw at him, or tear at, or sink her teeth into. She flew at the table with the vials he was standing in front of, thinking he might step in her way. But he didn’t. She took the tray and threw it against the wall. Next, she attacked the bed. It did look flimsy, and she was sure she could throw it against the wall just as easy as the tray, and then what would that smug son of a both tie her to? 

It must have been heavier than she realised, or maybe it was fixed to the floor somehow, because as soon as she tried to lift it, her knees gave way and a black film fell across her vision. She tried to stop her fell with her hands, but they were shaking too much now and she just slid to a crouching position on the floor. Garak’s steps were coming closer and for a moment her body tensed in anticipation of a kick - hadn’t she done the same to him not so long ago? It had been today, hadn’t it? It seemed like days or weeks ago… 

Instead of a kick, Ziyal felt a blanket fall over her, and for one second she was so happy that tears started to form in her eyes. She was exhausted, that was all. All she needed was this blanket. She would get up, get on the sofa, and just sleep, and when she woke up, everything would be better, everything would make sense. Or maybe she didn’t even need the sofa, maybe she could just sleep here, just for a little while… 

“You need to get up, Ziyal.”

“Why?”

Without having to look at him, Ziyal knew that he wasn’t answering because he was pondering her question. Elim Garak never answered with the obvious, even to the most trivial questions. 

When he spoke, his voice was near, like it had been before, in her room. 

“Well, because I think you will be more comfortable on the sofa, for example, and because the floor is cold and I am worried that you might get chilly. But you are right, of course - those are my considerations, not yours. It’s your decision.”

The thought that he thought her capable of making a decision, any kind of decision, almost brought tears to her eyes again. What she wanted, she realised, was to get up, walk straight into his arms, and stay there. Forever. 

_He’s playing you, my little Ziyal. You know that, don’t you?_

Ziyal got up and walked to the sofa. She was feeling warmer, but there were shivers running up and down her spine and the sensation of nausea had increased. Think, try to think, Ziyal. After all, it wasn’t as if she didn’t know anything about this man. Not so long ago, there had been a time when she had spent many hours with him, every day, day after day. He had been in her thoughts, in her words, in her dreams, she had felt him on her skin and in her bones. There had been a time, not so long ago, when she believed it wasn’t possible to be closer to another living being. She had kissed this man, she had held him in her arms, she had balanced his life on her fingertips. Then, he had gone away, and she - she had left him behind. 

Was that it? Was it possible that he was just - jealous? Sure, he had been reported dead, and before that he had told her in no uncertain terms that he had no interest in her, that she *annoyed* him, even - but that wouldn’t keep a man like Garak from expecting her to be waiting for him, nonetheless. Men like Garak expected everything. 

And he knew about Damar. He had to. 

He was standing a few paces away, and she knew he was looking at her, but she couldn’t bring herself to look back. Another wave of nausea crashed over her. She had been so concentrated in her musings that it took her by surprise; she jumped up, wanting to run to the bathroom, but then she realised she didn’t know where it was, or if there even was one. And even if there was, she wouldn’t have made it in time. 

“Oh, no. Oh, please…”

She couldn’t even run back and hide behind the sofa. All she could do was pull the blanket over her head and squat down in the middle of the room. Feeling the fire in her stomach turn to liquid and run down her legs, tasting regurgitated Kanar mixed with bile, fighting not to sit in her own shit and not to choke on her own vomit, Ziyal held on to a comforting thought: I hate Elim Garak, and I am going to kill him. I hate Elim Garak and I am going to kill him.


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damar has a moment. Then he needs a drink.

47\. 

There had been fluctuations and errors across the board for hours now. Nothing to worry about, the crew said. Things like this happened all the time. It was an old station, and it seemed to be common knowledge that a station, like a starship, acquired it’s own quirks and mannerisms over time, a kind of personality. It had good days and bad days, there were ways to get into it’s good graces and ways to piss it off. A few minutes ago, Damar had heard one of the technicians say, rather cheerfully, “seems the old lady is having a cranky day”. 

Damar didn’t think the station was “cranky”, and he didn’t think it was an “old lady” either. He thought it was an ancient, ugly, quite useless piece of junk, and working with it, and on it, was a torture only extreme quantities of Kanar could dull. Moreover, it was a piece of junk built with Bajoran slave labor, which meant that even now, booby traps and attempts at sabotage emerged, hidden in some protocol, time-triggered ten or twenty years before. Mostly inconsequential by now and no more than a temporary nuisance, but still there, and annoying as hell. In Damar’s opinion, the whole idea of Terok Nor had been misguided from the start, and the only way to go was to blow the whole thing up and start fresh. Don’t build a space station, build a Destroyer Class ship. Hell, build fifty of them. Show the whole sector what the Cardassian Empire and the Dominion really stood for. Order. Rules. Justice. Power.

But that was just his opinion, and who listened to him? Instead of standing on the deck of a Destroyer here he was, on this rickety deck, dealing with mysterious power fluctuations and inexplicable bursts of static because some incompetent Bajoran mechanic thought he could blow up the station and everyone on it twenty years ago - and failed. And the worst thing was, the son of a bitch had long since turned to dust, which meant Damar couldn’t even find him and kill him. He’d have to find another way to release his anger… 

A group of lower rank officers were standing together a few meters away. They were holding cups of Raktajino and obviously enjoying five minutes of idle inoffensive gossip. So Damar barked at them to immediately throw out that disgusting Klingon beverage and not to come back before they had a satisfying explanation, and of course a permanent solution, to the power fluctuations. He watched the officers scurry away and felt slightly better. But only slightly. As he resumed walking around the upper level of ops, as was his custom whenever he was there, people started punching away at their consoles with a fury, trying very hard not to look at Damar, then stealing glances at him when they thought he had moved past.

Good. He liked it when people where scared of him. That was as it should be. He pulled himself up as tall as he could and made sure he drove his boots down hard, so their sound was clear and loud and the dais trembled just a little bit under his steps. The workers kept their heads down, but Damar didn’t feel better. He didn’t really believe it, and neither did anyone else. It was a play, not very well rehearsed, with third rate actors and an apathetic audience. The only thing the crew was afraid of was maybe being bellowed at for no reason, or being made to stay on for another shift and miss a meal or two, or being ordered to perform some unnecessary and slightly humiliating task. 

Those were the things Damar did to them, that was the extent of his power. They talked behind his back, he knew they did: about the uniform he couldn’t quite get to fit the way he wanted it to, no matter how much he tugged and tucked and zipped; about his speeches, that he rehearsed to much and never were as rousing as he imagined; about his drinking. 

About Ziyal. 

They laughed. And there was nothing he could do about it. 

Dukat on the other hand, Dukat *really* scared them. His boots made no sound, his uniform fit perfectly, and there was always a smile on his face. All he had to do was walk into a room, any room, and a chill instantly spread. Conversations muted, bodies stiffened, objects fell from suddenly sweaty hands. While Dukat walked through them, smiling mildly, maybe humming a little tune to himself, the room, be it his own living room or a hall holding thousands, was filled with nothing but thumping hearts and fear. 

*That*, that was what Damar wanted. And he would get it. He just needed to bide his time, be patient, wait for his moment. Get off this godforsaken station. Get stationed somewhere away from Dukat’s influence. Somewhere he’d get noticed.

_Maybe we should stop drinking so much._

Ziyal had said that right that morning. He’d ignored her, of course, and he had no idea why he should be thinking of it now. He didn’t like it when Ziyal got into his head like that. She had no business there. Not in his head, not in his heart (where she wasn’t) - and not in his bed either.

For one thing, it was dangerous, even if, for now, it seemed like Ziyal had convinced Dukat of the ludicrous idea that she and Damar were a *nice couple*. Not so long ago, there had been a heartfelt conversation in which Dukat thanked him for being so good to his daughter, for making her happy. But there was no way Dukat did not know about the drinking, the sex, the occasional violence… and how sick Ziyal really was, how unhappy. Everyone knew that. Damar knew that Kira had tried to talk to Dukat about it, but then, any conversation between Dukat and Kira tended to run the same course and end in the same way, so not much good had come from that.

Why then? Why would Dukat pretend that what Damar and Ziyal had was a healthy and loving relationship? And for how long would he keep pretending? Damar couldn’t quite believe Dukat actually wanted to hurt his daughter, but he might be willing to do it if he had a plan. A goal. 

What was it? What was Damar’s part in it, and what would happen to him once it was over? 

Being with Ziyal had stopped being fun long ago, if it had ever been fun in the first place. He didn’t need her, he didn’t enjoy her. She was a liability, in more than one sense. 

And yet. And yet more often than not, he went straight to her place whenever he had free time, and when he didn’t it was Ziyal who came to him, and never once had he turned her away. He like that she didn’t speak, and that he didn’t have to talk to her. And there was always one more bottle of Kanar to finish, and Damar didn’t like to drink alone. He didn’t like that at all. 

He felt the hush spread through ops and knew who had come before he even saw Dukat walk towards him. He was smiling, as usual, and his steps were long and bouncing, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. But Damar sensed right away that something was not as it should be. Dukat’s eyes were darting from corner to corner, looking for something that wasn’t there, and there was something wrong with his smile, too. Not that anyone except Damar would see it because no one dared to look at him directly, but it was… strained. 

“Where is she, Damar?”

“Where is who?”

Even though he had just been thinking of her, it really didn’t occur to Damar that it was Ziyal Dukat was asking about. When Ziyal wasn’t in her own quarters, she was in Damar’s. She didn’t really *go* anywhere anymore, did she? So what could he mean?

Dukat stepped closer, so close that Damar could feel his breath on his face. 

“I am not going to repeat my question, and I *will* know if you lie to me.”

“I don’t know where she is. She’s usually in her quarters. Did you check-?”

“I checked, Damar. I checked. All the places you’re thinking of, and many others you haven’t. She. Is. Not. There.”

The smile was still on Dukat’s face, but Damar could feel waves of anger coming from him. Was he going to hit him? Right here, in front of everyone? Damar wouldn’t put it past him, and he found it made him - furious. Part of him was surprised about that. Who ever dared being furious at Dukat? 

“Well then, maybe you should have watched her better in the first place. Or had her watched. Isn’t that one of your specialties?”

Dukat took a step backwards, even staggering a little, as if it was Damar who had hit him. An exhilarating, heady feeling rushed through Damar. He took a deep breath.

“Damar, I’m warning you…”

It sounded weak. Not like a warning at all. 

Dukat had recovered his composure, but he wasn’t standing as close to Damar as he had before, and he wasn’t smiling either. Not anymore. Damar felt like giggling. Part of him knew there would probably - no, *surely* - be consequences to this. But right now whatever would happen to him then seemed worth it, if it meant he could savour this moment. This was what he had been dreaming of, this was his reward, finally. He knew it would come unexpectedly. Finally, he was being taken seriously, not only by Dukat but by every other person in the room. He was someone to be reckoned with. He was *seen*. 

“But of course you were too distracted, weren’t you?”

“Maybe we should take this conversation elsewhere.”

Dukat was smiling again, speaking casually. If he was going to win this, Damar realised, if he was going to seize this chance to gain the position of power he had been waiting for for so long, the position he *deserved*, this conversation needed to end fast. 

“And where do you suggest we take it, Dukat? To your office, where a Vorta will be waiting to give you your daily orders from the Dominion? Or to your quarters, where your Bajoran lover will be waiting for you with a different set of orders? Is there anywhere in this station, or in this quadrant, where there isn’t someone to tell you what you should do?”

Now was the moment when Dukat would call for guards, who would escort Damar away from ops and directly to the nearest airlock. Or, possibly, to a holding cell until a public execution could be arranged. That would have been the reaction of the Dukat he knew, the fearsome Gul Dukat. If it happened, Damar would not fight it. It would be the natural order of things, and he would be pleased to accept it. 

But if not… he had sensed a weakness, and he was betting everything on it. 

The technicians, workers and officers around them weren’t even pretending not to listen anymore. Everyone had stopped what they were doing and was staring up at Damar and Dukat. 

Dukat laughed. Not what Damar had expected. His hands were sweating and he could feel moisture breaking out under his hair and starting to flow down his neck, too. He had no play, no idea what to say next, but if he wanted to regain control, he had to act fast. 

“You’re drunk.”

It was the first thing that came to his mind, and he hadn’t really expected it to have any effect. Dukat stopped laughing and looked at Damar. And that was when it occurred to Damar that maybe Dukat was, in fact, drunk. He did drink a lot (they all did), but had never shown any signs that it affected him in any way. 

“Not any more than you.”

Dukat stated this matter-of-factly, and it was, of course, true. And being the truth it was, strangely, an admission of defeat. If someone had asked Damar what had just happened here, he wouldn’t have been able to explain it. But one thing he knew: there would be no execution.

The workers bent over their stations again. Damar put his hand on Dukat’s arm, and felt a shiver there. Again Dukat’s eyes started to dart this way and that, as if he had already forgotten the conversation that had just taken place. Maybe he had. 

“Come on, Dukat. Let’s go find, Ziyal, shall we? I’m sure she’ll be all right.” 

Dukat didn’t shake off Damar’s hand. He just looked at him and, after a few seconds, Dukat let go of his arm. They walked out of the room together. 

The looks that followed him were admiring. The second they left ops they would start talking, and not about his drinking this time, or his uniform. This was a moment to savour his triumph, but all Damar could feel was his beating heart and a coldness in the pit of his stomach.

Was he supposed to be in charge now? Had Dukat lost his mind? Where was Ziyal? What should he do next? 

There was a taste like sand in his mouth. He needed a drink.


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal and Garak use the bucket. Then Garak changes clothes, and Ziyal does not.

48.

“Why don’t you try to get some rest?”

There was no way she was going to be able to sleep, Ziyal was sure of it. The humiliation alone would keep her awake for a year. Or, most likely, forever. 

After the worst of the cramps and spasms had been over, she had managed to somehow crawl to the farthest corner of the room, with the blanket still pulled over her and leaving what she only could suppose was an appalling mess all over the floor. Well, it was more than a supposition. She might refuse to look at it, but she still could smell it. It was the smell that enraged her more than anything, and the filth she felt sticking to her thighs. The taste of vomit still in her mouth. It all enraged her, so much she wanted to bang her head into the wall. 

Instead, she had screamed at Garak to get out, to leave her alone, she had pleaded and begged and promised if he only left for five minutes, five tiny minutes, she would be good, she would be quiet, she would do anything he wanted. If he could just leave, she would clean it all up and it would be like nothing ever happened. 

_Wouldn’t you just love that_ , Tora mocked, but her voice didn’t make Ziyal cower anymore. It didn’t even make her wince. It made her want to laugh. Because it was Tora as much as Ziyal who had shit on the floor in front of Garak, it was Tora cringing in a corner, naked, with a blanket over her head. She was not some removed, ethereal voice, she was not a spirit. She was right here. And she was, literally, full of shit. They both were. 

Garak didn’t leave. Of course he didn’t. He talked to her in that maddeningly soothing voice he seemed to have acquired while being officially dead. Still with that strange laughter blubbering somewhere in her chest, Ziyal decided there was no dignified or decent way she was going to get out of this situation - this was a body of evidence she couldn’t walk away from. She stood up, stripped out of her soiled nightgown and walked straight toward Garak. 

“Ok, fine. I feel better now. I think I’m going to need some water. And soap. And some clean clothes. Please.” 

And then she learned what the bucket was there for. And the mop. 

After they were done, and she was clean (more or less), Ziyal felt tired again, swaying on her feet, dark spots across her vision. Garak led her to the bed and helped her lie down, and she didn’t protest. She shivered, and Garak put a clean blanket over her, then gave her a couple of shots from the vials on the table. She thought the medicine, or whatever it was, would make her go straight to sleep, but instead she immediately started to feel more awake and alert. She sat up on the bed, looking around as if she had just come into the room. 

“I don’t suppose you’re hungry.”

She smiled. 

“Right. I didn’t think so.”

“But I feel like I might be hungry, some time in the foreseeable future.”

He smiled back. 

“That’s progress.” 

“Anything’s called progress these days.”

Garak walked to the strange-looking replicator and came back with a plastic glass. 

“You need to replenish your fluids.” 

“Oh, I’ve been having plenty of fluids.”

Now he wasn’t smiling. 

“Drink it.” 

And just like that, she was there again. Tora. 

_Don’t do it. He put something in it. He wants to control you. That’s what they all want: Kira, Riker, all of them._

It made sense. Tora had never liked a mess. So she had just left, leaving Ziyal to clean up. Now she was back. 

“What’s wrong with the replicator?”

“Nothing. It’s just an ordinary replicator.”

“No it’s not.”

_They’ll break you, and you know why. You don’t mean anything to them. Not to him, not to Riker. They only want you to get to your father. They are using you. They always were._

Garak sighed. He was getting impatient, she could sense it. Probably because his plan wasn’t going as smoothly as he’d thought. If he got impatient, he might slip up. Turn his back. Relax. 

“All right. Yes, you’re right. It’s a restricted replicator. It will only provide me with certain preprogrammed foods, beverages and materials.” 

“Only you?”

“Yes, it will only respond to my voice.”

“So I won’t program a hatchet and bash your skull in?”

“Oh Ziyal, how crude. I’m sure you’d come up with something a little more sophisticated. But yes, that is the general idea.”

Ziyal folded her arms in front of her chest. The blanket was soft and warm against her naked skin. 

“I’m not drinking it.”

“Ziyal. I understand that you don’t want to be here. But this is absurd. You know you need to drink this. You have been drunk and hungover often enough, after all, haven’t you. Think: in the time you have been here, have I done anything to suggest that I want to do you harm?”

He went away. He left you alone. He’s done nothing but manipulate you.

In spite of the hypospray Garak had given her, Ziyal was beginning to feel very tired again. Shut up, she thought at Tora’s voice in her mind. Just shut up. 

“You set all this up.”

She gestured to the mop and bucket, back in their place, and the big plastic bag beside them, containing Ziyal’s soiled nightgown and blanket and all the rags they had used. 

“You want to see me humiliated. You want to see me broken.”

He didn’t reply to that. He put the glass on the table, very softly, and then he sat on the stool beside the bed, facing her. 

“I don’t want to see you broken. I want to see you whole.” 

Ziyal turned away, hoping her face was hard and scornful. Tora was whispering in her head about how Garak was devious and wanted to trick her, how she was pathetic and useless and a waste of space, how she should just find something pointy and stick it in his eye. She had heard it all before, it was irritating, she couldn’t concentrate. She thought again: shut up. And the she thought: go away, and in that moment, something slipped in her mind. It was a curious sensation, as if her brain had just hiccuped, or maybe swallowed something that was stuck. A space inside her that had been clouded before was now free and clear. 

She looked at Garak again, and there he was, sitting right beside her, and he didn’t look devious or evil. He looked tired, and thin, smaller than she remembered. He looked worried. 

She still didn’t like being kept here, and she hated him for witnessing what he had witnessed. But she had been retained against her own will enough times to know that no, he did not mean her harm. 

Men who kidnapped women wanted sex. No matter how much they talked or what they said, no matter how friendly or how brutal they were; it didn’t even matter if they finally raped you or not. They got their satisfaction by seeing their victims humiliated, or hurt, or both; they wanted to recreate their perfect fantasy of submission. They also usually thought they were unique, and quite proud of themselves for being so fantastically depraved. Many of them believed themselves to be generous, and most of the times they liked to stylize themselves as victims. They liked to tell you why they needed to hurt you, why you should really be commiserating them while they were cutting you open with razors and jerking off in your face. They were small, sad, little men.

Garak wasn’t one of them. He was the man who had seen her shit all over the floor, and then the man she had seen shuffle around on his knees, scrubbing that same shit off the floor. A man she had wanted to kill, and who had wanted to kill her. A man she had wanted to save, and a man who had wanted to save her. A beautiful man, a man she had had many dreams about. A man she knew would be kind to her. A mystery, as much now as he had been when she had first met him. 

Only now he was a mystery that was somewhat - smeared. Ziyal smiled in spite of herself. Tora was silent. Garak looked confused. 

“What?”

“You’re… um, you have…”

Ziyal gestured, and Garak looked down on himself, noticing the brown stains and smears on his pants and cuffs. 

“Shit.”

“Exactly.”

Now he grinned. She had rarely seen this kind of genuine grin on him, and Ziyal wondered if bonding over toilet humour had been part of Julian’s instructions. She missed Julian. 

“I should probably…”

“Yes, probably.”

She didn’t look away as he took his clothes off, just like he hadn’t looked away when she was standing naked in front of him. There was the awkward replication of water into the bucket, the clumsy use of sponges and soaps that were not meant for personal hygiene. Someone had not thought this - intervention, was that what it was? - completely through. 

“Is it supposed to be like this?”

Garak was finishing to put on his shoes, with some effort, because they seemed to be at least one size too small. He was also wearing some sort of distressingly ugly grey jumpsuit made of coarse fabric. Clearly he had not been in charge of supplying the clothes, and Ziyal decided she was going to stay with just the blanket for the time being. 

“Is what supposed to be like what?”

“Whatever it is that you’re doing here.” 

Again Ziyal gestured at the huge grey cargo bay around them, the biobed, the vials, the ludicrous pink sofa. Garak straightened up, swayed in his too tight shoes, winced, then shrugged. He always looked like a little boy when he did that. She wondered if anyone had ever told him that. 

“Yes. Well, more or less.”

“Talk me through it.”

He looked down, then around, as if waiting for someone to give him instructions. But there wasn’t anyone there, just the two of them. 

“Look, whatever you gave me is working, I haven’t felt the urge to kill you or, in fact, anyone, for at least ten minutes now, and my stomach is pretty much empty, so I think you’re safe. Tell me. I think it’s time I knew, don’t you?”

He nodded. 

“It’s detox.”

She waited for a minute, expecting a more detailed explanation to follow that.

“That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“And what about Riker? And Kira, and Odo? And why are you here, and not Julian? Where is he?”

“He wanted to come. He really did.”

“But…?”

“But I wanted it more.”

He had answered none of the questions she had asked him, and there were many more. Why were they calling him Lieutenant? Where had he been? Why hadn’t he come for her sooner? Kira and Riker had been talking about a plan, something happening - what was it? Where was her father, why hadn’t he come for her? Where was Dukat? 

So many questions, but none of them really mattered, not now, because he had answered the only one she hadn’t asked, which was, of course, the only thing she really needed to know. He was there because he wanted to, and he was going to take care of her. And, Ziyal decided, she was going to let him. For now.


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kira needs a drink. Dukat pays a visit.

49.

There was a taste like sand in her mouth. She needed a drink. 

Kira remembered the liquor they had passed around on cold nights during the resistance: raw, scorching throat and lungs, falling into the stomach like a mean fist and then spreading through the body like white heat. She could have used a shot of that right now, or three. But she couldn’t remember the last time she had had a drink stronger than spring wine, and this was definitely not the moment to start again: the Defiant and all the other ships supporting Operation Return were hours away from the station, and Odo, Riker, and their handpicked crew were disarming security systems one by one. Meanwhile, the Cardassian crew were beginning to realise that the malfunctions were more than just the usual hiccups of this mean old station; the technicians crawling around in Jeffries tubes in search of system errors were being recalled, and replaced with teams of heavily armed guards in search of saboteurs and traitors. Garak and Ziyal were locked away in a cargo bay, involved in what to Kira was a reckless psychological experiment with unforeseeable consequences - who knew what they were doing to each other in there. And finally, Damar and Dukat had reportedly had a big drunken blowout in ops, following which Dukat had finally lost his mind; apparently, he had been seen wandering around the station, shouting his daughter’s name and banging on random doors. 

In other words: everything was going according to plan. 

And Kira? Kira was Control. Her role was to supervise, evaluate, react. Relay information or deflect information, give orders, change deployments, place people and weapons at the right place at the right time. 

She would have much preferred to be crawling around in a Jeffries tube herself. The smooth and electrifying feel of a phaser in her hand. The satisfying thump of fist against flesh. She had promised herself she would personally deck at least a dozen Cardassians before this was over. For old times sake. 

But not yet. Right now, she had to be alert, calm, focussed. Not only Control, but in control. And all she could think of was that bottle of twelve-year old Kanar she knew Dukat had in his quarters. For a special occasion, he had said. No, not said. Whispered in her ear. And she had whispered back, isn’t this special enough. He had smiled, and said nothing, and she had known right then, with perfect clarity, that her whole life was a lie. Then she had allowed herself to sink into the darkness of his caresses, and was back to knowing nothing at all. So much easier, to know nothing.

Kira took a deep breath, and then another. There was still time. Riker had told her that Dukat and his second, Damar, were wanted for questioning and were expected to stand trial. But this was a war. People died in wars. Operation Return would be fast and messy and brutal, and Dukat was distraught, beside himself, everyone knew that. He might very possibly attack her, or someone else, he could threaten the whole operation, and if that happened, he would have to be stopped, wouldn’t he? By any means necessary. By anyone who was close enough. And Kira would make sure she was close, very close indeed. 

This time, there would be no Kanar, no whispers, no dimmed lights. Just him, and her, and a phaser. She would give him no time to touch her, to speak to her, to even look at her. It would be over in no time. All of it. For good. 

“Kira to Riker, report.”

“We’re progressing according to plan, Major. More or less.”

“More or less? What does that mean? Sisko and the rest of the fleet are going to be here in less than eight hours, we don’t have time for ‘more or less’!”

“You are very right, Major. Unfortunately, that means we don’t have time for this conversation either. I’ll keep you posted. Riker out.”

“Riker? Riker! Riker, come in!”

That man was a serious pain in the ass. Who did he think he was? When this was over, she would make sure he-

The door to her quarters opened, and Dukat walked in. 

“Thank you.”

Kira jumped to her feet. 

“What?!”

“You did say ‘come in’, didn’t you?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

He didn’t seem deranged at all. He smiled at her, the easy smile between two people who know each other and don’t have to talk to understand each other, then walked over to the sofa and sat, elegantly folding his long legs.

As soon as she’d heard the door open, even before she could see who it was, Kira had wiped the memory of the PADD she was using to follow her people’s movements. It was unusual for her to be in her quarters at this hour of the day, but not completely unheard of. She could have been meditating, having a late lunch, gone to pick up a forgotten PADD. 

“I’m busy, Dukat, and definitely not in the mood for you.”

“When are you ever in the mood, Kira? Come on over here, maybe I can change your mind.”

He patted the sofa beside him. His smile intensified into a grin, and he stretched his legs. He was enjoying this. 

This was not what Kira had had in mind for their next meeting. He was talking. He was looking at her. And she hadn’t shot him yet. 

“Get out, Dukat.” 

No, she couldn’t kill him here. Too many questions. Too soon. He had been here too many times, and they had done… too many things. Right on that sofa where he was sitting. On the table. Under the table. Kira looked around and realised, with sudden cold certainty, that she would never return to this room after today. She also realised that she had no feelings at all about that. 

“All right, I see you don’t want to play. Pity, because you know I *always* want to play… Say, Major, you seem distracted. Worried, even. Something I could help you with, perhaps?”

He knows. 

The certainty flashed through her like lightning, blinding her to everything else. 

It was all for nothing. The messages, the planning. All the ships coming to Deep Space 9. All her people on various points of the station right now - were they even still alive? Odo? Riker? Had there been someone waiting until he finished his last communication with her before…? Garak and Ziyal - did he know about them too? 

He must know. He must know everything, or he wouldn’t be sitting so calmly on her sofa. And that meant that all her friends were already dead, or locked away, or about to be. It meant she was alone. 

It also meant, must mean, that Dukat had finally found a way to disarm the minefield around the wormhole, and that Dominion ships were coming through right now. He’d known about Operation Return all along, maybe even before she knew. The Dominion must have had someone close to Sisko all this time. And Dukat - Dukat had been playing her. 

_Of course he’s been playing you. And you’ve been playing him, haven’t you? What did you think this was, sweetheart? A romance?_

Kira hadn’t heard that voice in a long time. It used to talk to her when she was in the resistance. When she was so tired she could barely stand and still had to keep walking; when she was cold and wet, sleeping on hard rock with an empty stomach, nauseous from the few shots of liquor she had had; when she was running towards an enemy position in the dark, a phaser in her hand. It told her not to be a baby, to stop complaining, to keep going. It told her fear would get her killed. It told her not to trust anyone, not even herself. And now it was back to tell her she had made a fool of herself. She had killed not only her friends and comrades, but any hope of winning this war. She had killed the future. 

_Yep. You have. And now - what do you intend to do about it?_

“Are you all right? You don’t look so well. Why don’t you sit down?”

Dukat had stood up and was walking towards her. Kira realised that, although a whole world had been lost in her mind, only a few seconds had passed. Every second seemed to be heavy with meaning now. She saw him, still walking towards her, as if through a fog, as if in a memory. One thing she knew: she could not let him touch her. She knew him too well, she wanted him too much, she hated him too much. If he touched her, she would fuck him or she would kill him, and neither of those things could happen right now. 

As he came towards her, Kira walked around him and sat down on the sofa. Her heart was racing, her mind was on fire. All she wanted to do was run out of the room, find a comm console, find her people. See what was happening with her own eyes. Who knew, maybe it was all in her mind after all.

_Yeah, you wish._

But she couldn’t go anywhere. She needed to stay there. With him. She needed to know more. For once, she decided, she was not going to act on impulse. For once, she was going to think first. This time, this last time, she was playing to win.


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People we've killed.

50\. 

“I can’t remember how many men I’ve killed.”

He had dimmed the light. He’d said something about how it would be better for her eyes, but Ziyal knew he had done it to make it easier for her to talk. Crude light was all right to scream at each other and to crawl on the floor smeared in one’s own vomit and faeces. For conversation about past murders, tortures and abuses, dim lights were much better. Ziyal made a mental note to ask him later if Julian had told him that, or if it was something he’d learned in torture school. Then she continued speaking. 

“I don’t even remember the first. I don’t remember how old I was either, fourteen, fifteen. His was the first life I took, you’d think that would be an important mark in my life. But there’s nothing. I don’t remember his face, or his smell, or how his skin felt. I’m pretty sure he was Cardassian, but I can’t remember that either. He could have been Bajoran, or even human. Not Breen, they would never have let one of us get close enough to hurt them… What I do remember is how messy it was. I had made myself a small knife, I had watched many fights, I thought I was ready. But the knife wasn’t very sharp, and I was clumsy.” 

“I had pictured it in my mind so many times. Each time one of them took me, and then after, trying to sleep in a corner somewhere, so hungry and with that pain between my legs. I imagined the knife slicing through the man’s throat, the blood spilling, his eyes bulging, so surprised because he hadn’t thought a little girl like me could kill him, and then the man collapsing without a sound. Done. Dead. It was all supposed to happen in one smooth movement, you know? I had been watching the men fighting, and remembering things my father taught me. For small people like us, it’s not about strength, it’s all about knowing how to balance your body, and where to apply pressure. I thought I was ready. But there were things I didn’t know then, that no one had taught me. Like how thick skin is. How flesh resists, like it doesn’t want to be torn, you know? How damned stubborn life is, any kind of life, even when the creature who is breathing it in and out is worth nothing, less than nothing.” 

“So I cut him, that first time, but I didn’t kill him, and he definitely didn’t collapse silently. He screamed, and thrashed. He was much bigger than me, of course, and I was afraid he would get away. But he didn’t. I did kill him. It took me a while though. But no one disturbed me. It was so easy to kill there. Actually, it is easy to kill anywhere, but that’s something else I didn’t know then. I thought it was just the camp. I thought the world outside was different. Better.”

He was close, but she couldn’t see his face. Ziyal remembered another time they had been so close. They had been listening to music. Sad music, in a strange language. They had talked about beauty, and pain, and suddenly his face had been very close 

_When pain and truth come together, they create beauty._

_When truth and beauty come together, they create pain._

That’s what they had said. She had thought he might kiss her then, and she had been so afraid. He was close again now, but she wasn’t afraid. She was just tired now. So tired. But she kept on talking, because if she didn’t say this now, here, to him, how could she ever say it, to anyone? 

“I used to bury them in the desert. It was very easy. I read somewhere, later, in a mystery novel, I think that a dead body is very heavy. But I didn’t know that then, and they never seemed heavy to me. I just put their legs over my shoulders and dragged them out. Sometimes the guards would see me, sometimes not, they didn’t care either way. I probably could have left the body lying just where I’d finished them, saved myself the trouble, but I had this idea that when you kill a someone, it is your duty to bury them. Even if they were scum, once you had killed them, you were somehow responsible for them. I don’t even know where I got that idea. Curious, don’t you think?” 

“I used to believe the same thing?”

“But not anymore?”

“I don’t know. Yes, I think I still do. My father told me that.”

Ziyal tried to remember. Had her father told her that, too? She didn’t remember any actual conversations, but surely they had talked, hadn’t they? About what? Not about school or homework, there hadn’t been any of that. About duty, probably. He was big on duty, Dukat. How she needed to be a good girl and obey him always. How to be a good Cardassian. Things like that. Ziyal couldn’t remember a specific instance of Dukat telling her what to do with the body of any persons she might kill, but it didn’t seem unreasonable. It was something Dukat would deem adequate to teach his little daughter. 

“I’d go just past the first two or three dunes and bury them there, not very deep either, I didn’t have to, the wind dried out the corpses in less than a day. And then, then came the best part: I’d just sit there, listening to the wind, feeling it in my face. The night all around me, the stars above me, and the body of the man I had just killed still warm at my feet. It was so - peaceful.”

She waited for Garak to speak, and even though he didn’t, she could still hear his voice. Not in her head, but in her body. 

“I remember how I felt, but I don’t remember any of their faces, or names. But I do remember the last one. The man I killed before I came here. I remember his face, he was so handsome, he looked so nice. So normal. I remember how he looked at me, like a was a thing. A thing he would enjoy to break. I remember how his hands felt on my skin, how he was breathing against my neck. He wanted what all the others wanted, but it was worse, much worse, because it was outside, you know? The outside world, the one I used to dream about. I thought, I really believed, that out there men didn’t just take women. I thought it would be like it had been with my mother and my father: two people who loved each other, in spite of everything.”

At this, Garak made a funny sound that he immediately tried to disguise as coughing, and Ziyal felt anger welling up. There was nothing of Tora in that anger, it was all Ziyal. How did he dare make fun of her parents’ relationship? What did he know about it? 

She remembered her father laughing, arranging her mother’s beautiful hair in intricate plaits, his hands touching her neck, ever so delicately. She remembered him telling stories about Cardassian heroes like Kalor and Likat, who climbed the highest mountain to see all of Cardassia from there and thus prove that it was, indeed, the most beautiful planet in the Universe (which it was, of course) - her mother looking at him, hanging on every word, asking him when they would go there together. She remembered him coming through the door of whatever house in whatever city or village or compound they were living, after weeks or months of absence - always laughing, always with his hands full of gifts for her and her mother. And her mother screaming for joy, incapable even of speaking, and running into his arms. It had seemed to Ziyal then that there could be no two people in all the worlds that loved each other as much as their parents. 

Then there were the slamming doors, the bloody noses, the bruises, the silences. A casual slap across the face when someone said something he didn’t like at the dinner table - and no one ever knew what he didn’t like, it changed every day. Ziyal remembered seeing Dukat punch her mother in the stomach, kick her again when she was on the floor, and then saying cheerfully to his daughter: “Come on, let’s go play in the garden! Let’s practice those fighting moves.” And Ziyal went with him. She didn’t know why he had hit her mother, but she must have done something wrong. Something he didn’t like. You should never do something that Dukat didn’t like.

Garak hadn’t said anything. Ziyal didn’t feel like talking anymore. She felt empty, and all she wanted to do was to lay down and sleep for a long long time, and then wake up and be somewhere else, someone else, sometime else. But she also knew that the story she had been telling would haunt her if she went to sleep, like it had done so many nights before. She might as well finish it. It wasn’t nice to start a story and not finish it. 

She didn’t want her next words to sound like an excuse, but they did. It would have made her angry, if she hadn’t been so tired. 

“I used to think about my life before the camp, you know, and I remembered all these happy moments. I thought… I thought that’s what a family was. Love, and all that.”

“Of course you did. It was what you knew, wasn’t it? And it *was* perfect, compared to your life in the camp.”

“But it wasn’t true. It was all a lie.”

“Truth, my dear, is a lot like love. No one really knows what it is, and once you think you know it, it keeps changing.”

They were silent for a moment. Ziyal listened for outside sounds, anything that might tell her what was going on outside this room. Were they looking for her? Was there fighting? She didn’t know why, but from the looks she had seen on Kira’s and William Riker’s faces, she thought there might be fighting. In that case, shouldn’t they be - well, somewhere else? Helping their friends. It didn’t seem right to sit here, in darkness, sharing stories about dead people. 

Ziyal felt Garak’s hand on hers. 

“Do you want to sleep for a little while, my dear?”

“Will we leave soon?”

“Soon, yes. But not right now. We still have a little time.”

She didn’t ask “before what?” Instead, she said:

“I don’t want to sleep. I want to talk. I want to tell you about this man I killed. The one at the University, on Bajor.”

She told him about the apartment, about his hand between her legs, about the sound his lifeless body had made as it tumbled down the stairs. She could have hurt him, left him there. She could have run to the authorities and told them that he tried to force her. Maybe they would have punished him. Maybe. 

“I don’t regret it, but I didn’t feel at peace afterwards, because I couldn’t bury him, you see, like I did with all the others. I couldn’t give him to the wind and the sand. I just left him there, in his living room. I thought they would come for me. That’s why I wrote to Kira, why I came here. But they never did. I never heard anything about it. I don’t know why. Many people knew that I was there. These things are easy to prove.”

“These things are also easy to hide.”

“But I didn’t hide anything. I just left.”

“Then someone did it for you.”

“Who would have done that?”

“Someone who - liked you, I suppose. Or someone who hated that man. Or both.”

“Some other girl he tried to rape, you mean? I guess it’s possible but… I don’t think so. You need certain skills to do something like that. You need to know things. These were students, professors. Smart people, nice people, most of them, but I don’t think anyone would have been able to cover up a murder, and much less for me.”

“Maybe it wasn’t someone from campus then.”

Why was he insisting? Why did he care? Ziyal didn’t want to know why she hadn’t heard anything about Lamar Torel after leaving him there, at the bottom of the stairs. She didn’t care. Maybe the Bajoran police was that stupid, maybe they didn’t care either. Lamar Torel was not important. He never had been. 

“What about you? Do you remember them?”

“Do I remember who?”

“The people you’ve killed.”

He didn’t look away, and his expression didn’t change. 

“Yes. I remember.”

“All of them?”

“Yes, all of them.”

“Tell me. I want to know.”


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kira and Dukat have one last wild romp.

51.

Kira had her smile prepared. The special smile that was just for him. She was ready this time, ready to play the game. It was a game she had often lost, always, come to think of it. But this time she was sure she would win. She had to, because this time it was not about her. 

She turned to him, and that’s when he hit her, right across her jaw with a closed fist, hard, with precision. It was a calculated blow, exactly measured to cause pain, but not enough to render her unconscious or seriously hurt her. 

_No, that will come later._

Apparently, the blow hadn’t managed to shut up the voice of the new/old friend in Kira’s mind. 

The pain expanded slowly in her head, taking its time to spread to every corner, down her neck, into her eyes, to the tip of her tongue. She tasted the blood pooling in her mouth. The next second, his face was very close. He sucked in air between his bared teeth. 

“Where is she?”

Kira looked at him for a beat, two beats. She lowered her head, letting him believe she was actually going to answer, and then she spat the blood accumulated in her mouth into his face. Dukat laughed and licked it away. Kira tried to get up, but Dukat had her pinned down with his arms and legs. Many times they had lain on this sofa in this very same position, and she’d always felt the same way: helpless, trapped. Small. Dirty. But never had she felt the strength to get away. Until now. 

Kira wiggled a bit, as if to get herself into a more comfortable position. Dukat grinned and pushed against her. She could feel his hardness against her leg. He leaned forward to put his mouth on hers, and that was when she rammed her knee into his crotch with all her might. The look on his face was one of infinite surprise… then he groaned and collapsed on top of her. She pushed him and he rolled off the sofa and onto the floor as if he was already a dead body. There was no sound. As she jumped off the sofa herself she pushed her feet into his chest, and heard a crack. Good. She pushed her heels in just a little bit more; then stood beside him and kicked his head. And again. And again. 

By now he had stopped making noises; the only sound in the room was the thud of Dukat’s head against the floor. She knew she could kill him now. 

_Go ahead. You know you want to. You know it has to be done, and you know it has to be you._

That was what the voice said. But the voice didn’t have a body. Ziyal had. Riker had. Odo had. And all the people on the station, on Bajor, in the whole quadrant who were going to die if those Dominion ships came through the wormhole. As tempting as it was, and as crucial as it had seemed just minutes ago, Dukat was just not important enough. He was not worth her time. 

Kira turned away, already forgetting him. Should she dare use a communicator on one of their pre-arranged frequencies? What she wanted was to just go and find them herself, first Ziyal, then Riker and Odo - but could she risk it? She was already walking towards the door when something caught her foot. 

Damn rug, I never should have bought it, she thought, as she was going down. Dukat clamped his hand harder into her ankle and yanked her to the floor. It seemed to Kira that she was falling for a long time, the floor seemed to come at her and come at her, surely she would have time to protect her head with her arms. But she must have gotten distracted somehow, because her head met the floor and there was nothing to protect it. She heard something crack, tasted more blood in her mouth. Dukat was on her, knees in her stomach, and she felt something rip or tear in there as well. She couldn’t breathe. 

“Where is she?”, he asked again, and she could feel droplets of his spit falling on her face. She wanted to answer him, she really did. 

_You still think you can talk your way out of this, don’t you? Or fuck your way out, whatever._

Yes, she did. Even pinned on the floor, with a broken jaw and his knees crushing her ribs and mashing her liver to a pulp, a part of her still thought she could reason with him. They had shared moments of understanding, hadn’t they? He had talked to her in his soft voice, about his dreams, about the future, about his daughter and she had thought, this is good, this is right, this is where I’m meant to be. They had shared laughter, and meals, and long nights. Even now, part of Kira couldn’t believe he wouldn’t listen to her.

She sought his eyes. She found them. And then she saw it. It was no use. There was nothing there. 

Not laughter, not sex, not Kira, not his daughter. He was talking of Ziyal, but it was just words, words he was saying because he liked to hear himself talk. If she told him where Ziyal was, he would just stay there and torture her, kill her, and then, who knew what he would do then? What would he do if he found Ziyal and Garak? 

Even though it would certainly cause massive internal bleeding, Kira drew her arms back, causing Dukat’s knees to sink deeper into her stomach. Then she slammed both her fists together right into his throat. He didn’t fall, but she could feel him sway. She hit him again, this time on the side of his head, right on his ear. He grabbed her throat; the movement made him lose his balance for a split second. Kira didn’t need more. With one wild scream she rolled and pushed him off. 

She knew she had only a second to decide what to do next, maybe not even that long. Reasoning with him was out of the question, hurting him hadn’t worked, so there were only two options: get away from him so fast he couldn’t follow, or kill him. 

To kill him was what she wanted, what every bone in her body was screaming out for her to do. She knew she could do it, she was certain of it. Running meant the uncertainty of leaving him out of her sight. It also meant he would stand trial, be publicly accused and convicted of his crimes, for everyone to see. Humiliated. Didn’t he deserve that?

_If he stands trial, he’ll tell everyone about you._

Still rolling out from under Dukat, she punched his face as hard as she could, seeking his belly and his groin with her knees and feet. If she could keep him on the floor, get on top of him, just for a few seconds… all she had to do was find the right angle. One push with the back of her hand, not even a very hard push, would destroy his nose and incapacitate him, another would drive splinters into his eyes and brain. He would not die immediately, and it would be very painful. 

And then, almost unexpectedly, there she was, on top of him. Pinning down his shoulders with her knees, steadying his head with one hand, raising the other for the first of the final blows. Through the pain in her chest and belly and head, through the almost paralysing worry about her comrades and the station and the thousands of ships coming through the wormhole, Kira Nerys felt laughter bubble up her throat. After all, it did come down to this. Who was on top of whom. No strategies, no weapons, no allies. No words. Just two bodies. That’s what it had always been, what it would always be, now and forever. 

How simple it is, she thought as she brought her hand down. There were no more voices in her head, just her own. Nothing else. She felt her hand impacting against skin and bone, she felt the bone breaking. One more blow and he would be gone, the mighty Dukat would be nothing but a hull. And soon enough, it would be like he had never existed. Fifty years, a hundred years from now, who would remember any of them? Probably no one. Kira had always found that thought comforting. 

She still found it comforting when his hand came out of nowhere and closed against her throat. The second blow missed, her hand went out into the air, then she sought to loosen his grip with both hands. It was no use, his hand, the one hand crushing her throat, had shut like a trap. She was struggling to breathe. How could he have moved? Where did he find the strength? No matter. Still sitting on top of him, feeling her lungs close to collapse, Kira looked into Dukat’s face one last time. It was a mess of blood and spit and bits of bone, and his eyes said nothing. Only his hand squeezed and squeezed. Kira took in the damage she had done, the damage they had done to each other, and then she closed her eyes.


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak goes into a closet. Ziyal and Garak walk out.

52\. 

How long? How many more hours, minutes, seconds until they found their way out? Would they ever find their way out? And who decided if they were ready? Garak had forgotten.

Encouraged by medication, isolation, detoxification and - hopefully - trust, Ziyal talked and talked: about her poor miserable childhood and that maniac Dukat; about the camp and all the men who had abused her body there, and how she had made them go away, because what else could she do; he saw her standing there, on the dune, under the dark soft sky, so full of stars - just like he had seen her in his dreams, not so long ago, sweating and shivering in his hole. He saw her pushing the tangled body of that pig Lamar Torel down the stairs of his pretty beige house. He saw confusion and then a glimmer of realisation in her eyes: a part of her knew it was him who had buried the affair. But she didn’t want to listen to that part. She was tired of knowing. She didn’t want to care anymore. 

Garak understood, he understood only too well. He was tired too, so tired. But she pushed on: she wanted him to tell her, she demanded to know. Who had killed? When? How? How many? She wanted to feel a connection, any kind of connection. With her father, it had been faith; with Damar, it had been drink and sex; with him, it was death. If they had both killed people, and enjoyed it, that meant they were the same, and if they were the same, they would never be alone. It was an attractive thought, but a flawed one. Julian had warned him about going down that road.

She won’t be going willingly, it won’t be a miracle cure, he had said. She will want to build an illusion, and naturally she will want to build it around you. She’ll want to tie you to her with sex, or with shared memories, or with plans of a shared future. And you will have to decide how far you go to give her the support you need. 

He had been so nervous about that. What if she offered herself to him? Would he be able to resist? Should he? And if he did, would she ever forgive him?

And now here they were, she was naked, it was dark, they were alone, and all she wanted was for him to say: you and I, we are the same, Ziyal. That was all she needed to go on just a little bit longer - long enough to get away. Away from Deep Space 9, away from Kira, from Damar. Away from her father. 

So it would be, then. His first (and most probably only) mission as a Starfleet officer, and he would fail. The life and sanity of the love of his life, lost. Every hope he ever had for a future he never believed in, gone. All because after a lifetime of manipulation, blood and torture, this was the moment that Elim Garak, the most feared agent of the Obsidian Order, chose to stop. This was when he decided that he could not do it any longer. He could not speak of death, he could not think of it. He was done. 

 

“Tell me. I want to know.” 

“Maybe some other time.” 

He felt his heart beat fast and hard against his chest. It was getting difficult to breathe, his hands were sweaty. What if Ziyal noticed? It was a very delicate moment for her, she was still on the brink: death didn’t have her, but neither did life. It was imperative that she should trust him, and instead of showing her that she could do exactly that by being calm, deliberate and decisive, he was going to pieces in front of her. 

_Wonderful, Garak, just marvelous._

It wasn’t his father’s bitter voice that he heard. It was Dax’s, it was Bashir’s, it was his own, even Riker’s. 

Is this what you are? Is this all that you’re capable of? You’ve spent your whole life killing and destroying, with precision, with ruthless success - and this one time that there’s a life to save, the most important life, the only life that matters, this is when you choose to fail? 

“But I’m going to tell you about my father’s cupboard.” 

“His - cupboard?”

She didn’t seem disappointed, or irritated. Just curious. She pulled the blanket close around her and leaned back on the biobed. Garak couldn’t help but smile. Ziyal had always loved to be told stories, and she listened to his so hungrily that it made him want to write books for her. 

“Well, it was more of a closet, really. Just an ordinary closet. A rather small one. The house was full of them, small and big, upstairs, downstairs, in the cellar, locked or not, and I had looked into all of them, especially into the ones that were locked and strictly forbidden, of course.”

She giggled. “Of course.”

He loved her schoolgirl giggle. If she could giggle like that, maybe not all was lost? He concentrated on his breath and went on with his story. This story was all he had right now. 

“In some of them there were old clothes and shoes, broken furniture. In others there were weapons, some I recognised, some not. In others there were strange instruments that sometimes started humming and blinking. They looked dangerous, like they might explode any second, but I wasn’t afraid. I thought it was exciting.”

“I wish I’d had a big house with lots of nooks and crannies to explore. We were always moving, and the houses were always crummy.” 

“Oh, it wasn’t my house, of course, that was made very clear to me. And Tain wasn’t my father, even though I knew he was, and I wasn’t wanted there, not even tolerated. I was more like a plague of cockroaches that you can’t quite get rid of. But I was alone a lot, and yes, it was a great house to grow up in. I was quite happy there, really. Most of the time.”

He *had* been happy. How extraordinary that he should realise that precisely now. 

“There was one closet, though, that I had not looked into. One was even afraid to come close to.”

“Why?”

“Because I heard things inside. Moving.”

He paused. It wasn’t his mind or even his ears that remembered those sounds, it was his skin. Ziyal shuddered, as if she could feel it too. Maybe she could. 

“I don’t like this story. You’re making this up to scare me. Why do you want to scare me?”

Moments before she had been talking of murder and violence, asking him for more deaths, more blood to share. And now she was just a girl, a very young girl, afraid of the ghosts he was conjuring for her. How could it be it that imagined ghosts where more frightening to her than real corpses? 

_She’s afraid because you’re afraid._

“I don’t want to scare you. If you don’t want to hear about it, I’ll stop.”

“No, I do. I do want to hear it. I’m sorry, I won’t interrupt you anymore.” 

Why had he chosen to tell her about his father’s closet, why was it so important? Was it even true, or was it something he’d dreamt, something someone else told him, a story that Mara scared him with? Garak couldn’t remember. He went on. 

“This particular closet was in a corridor on the third floor, right in front of my father’s office. One day, my father called me into the office to punish me for something I’d done, and when I came by the closet I heard something. Something moving. Something small. Like a bird. I kept thinking about the bird all the time while I was getting my belt lashes, and when I came out of the office, I went straight to the closet and wanted to open it - but I didn’t. Because what I heard didn’t sound like a bird anymore. It sounded like someone laughing.”

“Someone…?”

“Someone small.”

“Like… a dwarf?”

“No. A child. It sounded like a child laughing.” 

He didn’t realise he had stopped talking until he heard Ziyal’s voice, very gentle, trying not to startle him. 

“What did you do?”

“I ran away. From that day on, I tried even harder to avoid displeasing Tain, not because of the beatings, but because I didn’t want to pass in front of that closet. But of course, it was impossible not to displease Tain, because there weren’t any rules. He didn’t want to educate me, he wanted to break me. I was just too little to understand it.” 

Ziyal’s hand was in his, and, without thinking about it, he lifted it to his mouth and kissed it. 

“I was called to Tain’s office often, and every time I came out and passed the closet, I heard that laugh. Sometimes I heard thumps too, like - like someone dancing.”

“Dancing?”

“I don’t know… That’s what I imagined. Or what I tried not to imagine. I started to have nightmares, I woke up screaming. And my father didn’t like that, of course. He didn’t like that at all. I tried to tell him I was having nightmares about big bears, about murderers, ghosts, vampires, anything that would seem more - normal. But he didn’t believe me. My father, he was a professional, you know. A professional of lies. I didn’t have a chance. And he had a way of looking at you, just looking. If he did it long enough, you told him everything he wanted to know. So of course I ended up telling him about the closet, even though I had fought it so hard, because I knew what would happen.”

“Did he… did he punish you?”

“Oh, he didn’t beat me. Not this time. Now, he just threw me in the closet, and locked the door. He left me there for a day.” 

Suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go on. He wasn’t sure he should. It was one thing to remember, to carry the memory around, cradled in his brain. It was another thing to put it in words. What would he conjure if he spoke those words? 

“Of course, I wet my pants immediately, and I had to spend the night in the cold and the stink. When my father found out the next day he was so angry that he beat me anyway. He broke three ribs.”

“Oh, Elim…”

He smiled. As if three broken ribs was the worst that had ever happened to him. To either of them. 

“It wasn’t so bad. Children heal quickly.”

“How old were you?”

“I don’t really know… Four, five?”

“But at least you did’t fear the closet anymore, right? No more nightmares.” 

It would have been easy to say yes. Yes, my lovely, that’s right, no more nightmares. Once you face your fears, they disappear, and sometimes a night full of piss and shit is what you need to grow up. To take the next step. Wouldn’t that have been a good, neat, solid lesson. 

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He needed her to know the truth. He needed her to believe. He needed the connection as much as she did. 

“I wasn’t alone in there, Ziyal. I was not alone in that closet.” 

She gripped his hand tighter. There was no sound, not even their breaths. As if time itself had been suspended, and they were being sustained by something other than air. 

“I… I can’t describe what it was. It had no form, it wasn’t… a thing, not something I could put my hands around, nothing I could feel, or hit. It was… a darkness. An evil. A… a shadow.”

Sweat was trickling down Garak’s face and back, his heart was beating hard again, but her small hand was still in his, and he knew where he was. He was not in the closet, and the shadows were not coming. Not today. 

“That night, in that closet, I saw them for the first time. The shadows. And then, after that…”

“You saw them everywhere.”

“Yes.”

“I know them. I see them too.” 

A beat, another, another. Time started to pass again. He heard himself breathe out, he heard her breathe in. As if he had given her his breath and she had taken it, and now they could both go on. 

She was the first to stand up. Walking to the metal spind her steps were firm and swift, the blanket remained on the biobed. The dress she put on hung awkwardly from her thin body, and she laughed softly.

“I’m going to need new clothes.” 

“Well, I happen to know an excellent tailor.” 

“I’m a lucky girl, then.” 

She came back to where he was standing, took his hand again and walked with him to the cargo bay door. They stood there for a moment, holding hands, like obedient schoolchildren waiting for their teacher to give them permission to cross the street. 

“What’s going to happen?”

She didn’t sound afraid. It didn’t even sound like much of a question, as if she was only asking because she knew it would give him pleasure to answer. He looked at his ill-fitting grey jumpsuit. Suddenly he realised he would have felt better wearing a Starfleet uniform, his communicator on his chest, his Lieutenant pips on his collar. Wasn’t that - something. 

“I don’t know. Sisko is going to retake the station, most likely.”

“And then he’s going to win the war.”

“I believe so. Not today, and not by himself, but yes, he’s going to win.” 

“And we are going away.”

“Yes. We are getting a transport-“

“ _Stealing_ a transport.”

“… _Borrowing_ a transport, and going to a safe zone, where Julian will be waiting. He’s looking forward to see you.”

“He’s looking forward to treat me.”

“He’s looking forward to help you. Because he’s your friend.”

“What about Riker? And Kira?”

“They… will help you too. Everyone will help.” 

For some reason he didn’t feel strong enough to question, they were still not looking at each other, but Garak could feel her repressing a burst of laughter. 

“That’s fine, that’s… great. Really great. It’s a… it’s a good plan. And I want you to know that I’m thankful. To all of you. It’s just that…” 

“What?”

“I can’t do that, of course.” 

“Can’t do what?” 

“Steal a transport- sorry, _borrow_ a transport. Go see Julian. Get help. All that.”

“Ziyal…”

“There’s something I have to do first.”

He knew what she was going to say. He had known it since they had come into the room. But he let her say it because he knew it would give her pleasure to say it. 

“I have to see my father.”


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Picard shakes his head. Will gets on his knees, then gets up again.

53\. 

_Shit. I thought I was over this._

Commander William Riker took in a sharp breath, then another, then he sank to his knees beside what had once been Kira Nerys. He knew it was her because he recognised the form of her body, her uniform, her ritual ear ornament. Her face was gone, beaten away, and he had seen enough violence in his life to know that someone had kept beating her for quite a while after she was dead. 

_Dukat._

There was no sign of him, no indication that he had even been in the room. Riker had never met him, knew nothing about him but what he had read in reports, what he had been told, rumours, whispers… It was nothing but a wild, unsubstantiated, really ridiculous guess. And yet he was certain beyond the shadow of a doubt. It was Dukat who had done this. It could only have been him.

_Will it never end? Will it never fucking stop?_

Will put his hand on the major’s body, as if feeling for a last breath where none would ever pass again. There were broken ribs, most probably massive internal injuries. He knew men like this. Men who enjoyed inflicting pain, delighted in it as if it were fine handiwork, a craft slowly acquired over years and years of practice. He could see it clearly, although he didn’t want to: there was Dukat punching into Kira’s slight frame with all his might, again and again, sitting on top of her, ramming his knees into her stomach, punching her again. And then the scene changed and it was his father he saw, sitting on top of Kira, punching her face meticulously, dispassionately, looking at Will with something like pity in his eyes, as if to say: didn’t you know it was like this? Didn’t I teach you anything? 

_Stop. Stop it. This is not helpful. You’ve got to focus now._

He tried to recall his doctor’s tone of voice. The doctor would tell him to breathe, to go to that place in his mind where none of this mattered, where it was warm, and he was safe, and loved. But he could not find it. There was no safe place, there had never been a safe place and there never would be, would there? People like Dukat, like his father, they would always win in the end. 

_I cannot do this. Now now. There are people counting on me. Please, please not now…_

Who was he pleading with? He didn’t know. He saw faces pass before his eyes, friends, family: his auntie Tasya; the captain; Deanna; Data; his cousin Dmitri; Worf. But they all slipped past him, blank-eyed, into the darkness. They could not help him. No one could. This was where it would end for him, curled up beside the broken body of a woman he hardly knew, on a space station he had no business on, pretending to fight a war he cared nothing about, with people who didn’t want him there - for what?

“You were nice to me once.” 

_Ziyal._

That’s what she had written in her letter. Will remembered reading it, it seemed like years ago, and he had felt so bad that he had run to his captain and begged him to let him go to her. The captain had said no, because it wasn’t safe. He didn’t want anything to happen to his Number One. But then how, how was it possible that he was here now, stumbling over dead bodies, crawling around in Jefferies tubes, fearing guards who might shoot on sight around every corner? Was this safe? Why would his captain send him here? 

_You said you needed to go._

Now he could here his captain’s voice, and his face didn’t float by, it stayed. Yes. He had said that. Will remembered sitting on the floor with the girl, leaning against a bulkhead, her poor young face covered in tears and snot, and she had said, I wish I was a stone, and Will, Will had felt his whole life unraveling, as if his heart were a spool of yarn and someone was tugging at the thread with the evil pleasure of destruction. He knew they were connected then, he knew he had to help her, or at least try. 

That’s why he was here. Not because of the space station, or the people on it, or the war that had nothing to do with him. He was here for the girl. 

_Story of my life._

He grinned to himself, picturing his captain staring at him and shaking his head in disapproval. Now that Kira was dead, Ziyal could not be his priority. His mission was more than an alibi now. He was needed. That’s what Picard would say, and he would be right. 

So, instead of curling up in a ball beside the dead woman’s body again, Will sat up straight. He closed Kira’s eyes and arranged her body in a more dignified manner. He hadn’t known her well, but somehow he knew she was a proud and dignified woman in her own way, and he hoped she would have appreciated it. He sat there in silence for a minute. Then he got up. He knew what he had to do.


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He is crazy and needs to be stopped._

54\. 

_He is crazy and he needs to be stopped._

Dead bodies made everything simpler. Kira’s was no exception, and Ziyal was mildly surprised that the rule still applied even when it wasn’t her who had actually made the body - be dead. It was, then, a simple question of mathematics. The more people in the Universe, the more problems. One less person, one less problem. 

Why she had come here to look for her father wasn’t entirely clear to her. Of course she knew about him and Kira, everyone knew. But that they were having sex didn’t mean he would come looking for her in a time of crisis - did it? Ziyal hadn’t thought of Damar once she she had last left him. Wouldn’t that mean more than sex then, wouldn’t that mean - love? Or something like it? Some deeper connection? Did Kira feel it too? And what did it all mean for Ziyal? There was some meaning there, but she couldn’t quite catch it - she was just too tired. Maybe later, she thought. Maybe later.

There was only one thing she was absolutely sure of, and that was that the place to look for her father right now was Kira’s quarters. She would be there, Garak had said, because Kira was Command Central, or some other rather silly-sounding Starfleet expression. And where Kira was, there Dukat would be, sooner or later. She knew it, and Garak seemed to know it as well, because he just nodded and said “this way”. 

He hadn’t even tried to fight her, talk her out of it. Smart man - he knew this wasn’t the important fight. He was saving it for later. Or maybe he was just as tired as she was. Maybe he didn’t care very much one way or another. 

Now, kneeling down beside Kira’s body, he looked more than tired. Ziyal could hear his knees creak, and a sigh that was more like a groan, although he tried to suppress it. He looked old. 

Ziyal saw him touch the body. Why? Did he actually believe she might still be alive? 

“Someone was here.”

What did he think, that she had done this to herself? He looked up at Ziyal.

“Someone - fixed her. Arranged her body like this.”

Now Ziyal knelt down too. Kira’s eyes were closed, and Ziyal tried to find a peaceful expression on her face, but it was too badly beaten to discern any expression, or any face for that matter. She knew it was Kira, but it didn’t look like her. Was that the reason Ziyal wasn’t feeling anything? Shouldn’t she be feeling fear, grief, anger? Hadn’t she loved Kira? Didn’t she love her father, who had done this to her? Wasn’t Garak supposed to have cured her from all that non-feeling? 

For a few panicked heartbeats she waited for that cottony feeling she knew so well, that cloud that enveloped her, that sickness that came over her, making the world go far away and deep inside her at the same time, where it hurt the most. She waited for Tora’s voice but it didn’t come, and when Garak put his hand in her arm, she felt it’s warmth and weight and the little tremor in it.

“It wasn’t him.”

No one had said Dukat’s name since they entered the room, but they both knew who she was talking about. No, it hadn’t been Dukat. But then who?

“Riker!”

“Riker?”

Riker.

“He’ll want to find him.”

“Which means he’ll want to find you.”

“Because my father is looking for me.”

Garak nodded. Ziyal got up and held out her arm to Garak. 

“Then we better find him.”

He leaned on her to get up, and for some reason Ziyal felt a burst of pride. For him, for her, for both of them. For making it here. 

Then it passed. 

And again she set about following Garak through the station. It seemed like she had done nothing else for days now, but she didn’t mind. She trusted he wouldn’t lead her astray. 

None of them had said it, but they were both thinking it. _We better find him before he finds someone else and does the same to them. Because-_

_He is crazy and he needs to be stopped._

Dukat was certainly not the only one going crazy. But he was at the centre of it, Damar was sure of that. Forget the Starfleet soldiers suddenly crawling out of every possible and impossible hole, lurking behind every corner, firing at everything that moved. Forget the throngs of utterly useless Cardassian guards, led by no one, running around in front of the Starfleet people’s phasers, getting themselves captured or killed. Forget Kira, and Odo, forget Ziyal and even Garak - although he was sure they had all played a part in the station’s fall. 

None of them mattered. Only Dukat mattered. He was responsible. Everything was going to the dogs, just as Damar had predicted when no one was listening to him, and Dukat was to blame, just as he had known he would be. So there was only one thing to do: find him, and take him out. And if any of the others came across his way, so much the better. He would take them all out, and when they were all gone, with their conspiracies and machinations, with their tricks and schemes and their dirty, sticky feelings, he, Damar, would restore order. Everyone had seen what he was capable of. As soon as Dukat was gone, him and his weak, drunk daughter, and his filthy, filthy Bajoran whore of a mistress, they would follow *him*. 

And it would be a relief for them to follow him. He would never lie. He would never negotiate. He wouldn’t have to. Damar would restore Cardassia to his true greatness, not through deceit and cunning, but through strength. And his first show of strength, the most important, maybe the only one that really mattered, would be to kill Dukat. He should have done it before, right there in ops, when he was showing his weakness in front of him, swaying on his feet, a speck of spit clinging to the corner of his mouth - but it was better this way. 

It would be in battle, an honest fight. Damar would give him a chance to defend himself. They would fight, hopefully in view of as many Cardassian and Starfleet soldiers as possible, and Damar would win. There was no doubt about it. Because Dukat was the past, and Damar was the future. Dukat was everything that was wrong with Cardassia, everything that was sick, and twisted. He needed to be purged, and a new Cardassia would emerge, and that Cardassia would have Damar’s face. And it would be unstoppable. Because-

 

_He is crazy and he needs to be stopped._

There seemed to be no order or plan to the battle, if a battle was what it was. Where was Sisko? Where was Odo? Didn’t these people have any orders? And where were the Jem’Hadar? Shouldn’t the place be crawling with them? Communications were down, of course, and as Will made his way through the station, the chaos of war seemed to have reached a level he had seldom, if ever, seen. He saw groups of Starfleet and Cardassian soldiers running straight past each other without firing a single shot. He saw two Starfleet men doggedly exchange shots from behind their parapets even though their uniforms were clearly visible. In the middle of the Promenade, with fire and smoke all around and boots threatening to crash their heads in any minute, he saw four Cardassian soldiers sitting on the floor, quietly playing some sort of card game with deadly concentration. They didn’t speak a single word as he walked past them, they didn’t even look up. 

Will didn’t speak to any of them, he didn’t stop. Should he have started telling people to shoot in the right direction, to kill the right people? That was, after all, the most widely accepted, simple and proven strategy: the more enemy soldiers you killed, and the faster you did it, the sooner the battle was over, the more of your own soldiers you saved; the more soldiers you had to do it over and over, the sooner the war was over, and the sooner you won it. 

Except that this battle wasn’t about winning the war. It was the battle that would win the war, yes, but right now, right here, Will saw that is was about something much simpler: it was about people fighting for their home. Some to get back to it, some that didn’t want to leave it. This is what this old, creaky, cold and ugly place does to you, Will thought, picking his way through the smoking debris of what had once been the Klingon restaurant. You come here and you think it’s the most horrible place you’ve ever been, and a few hours later, you still think it’s horrible, but you think of it as home. Home is not a quadrant, or a planet, or even a city. Home is the places you go, where you take your morning coffee, drink your evening beer, buy your milk and your bread. The replimat. Quark’s. The Jumja stick stand. Garak’s shop. Odo’s station. As he walked through the remains of Deeps Space 9, Will thought about how every war was about fighting for home and every war destroyed the home you were fighting for. Not an original thought, he was sure, but not less true for it. 

No, he wouldn’t tell the soldiers to fight better, kill faster. Not the ones on his side, not the ones on the other side. That wouldn’t end the battle, or the war. Only one thing would end it: find Dukat. 

_Well that’s just wrong, Number One. History does not change with the fate of one single person._

Will had spent so many years having these debates with his captain that he could hear him in his head even when he was thousands of lightyears away. Yes, of course, that’s what Picard would say. That he’d bought into Dukat’s delusions of grandeur. That he’d let himself be fooled by the man, just like he’d fooled everyone else. Dukat wasn’t the Dominion. He was a puppet of the Dominion, like thousands of others. His fall would mean nothing, nor his death. 

Will slowed his steps. What was he doing? He should get back, find a Starfleet officer, get a status report. Find out where Sisko was. Coordinate. Yes, he should - 

_What’s a girl like you doing in a bar like this?  
I might ask you the same thing._

Kira’s smile, smashed in. Her small frame, shattered. Her spirit, gone. Will straightened up, started to walk, then to run. 

_You’re right, captain. You’re always right. But sometimes it’s just like this, sometimes you just know: right now, I have to find Dukat. Because-_

_He is crazy and he needs to be stopped._

They ran through corridor after corridor, all of them empty. They heard the battle but never saw it. The noises were strangely subdued. There were no screams, hardly any voices at all. There were shots, but they sounded more like single persons practicing with targets and then taking long pauses. Sometimes they heard whispers that seemed alarmingly close, but when they turned the corner, no one was there. 

He told Ziyal it was because many Jefferies tubes were open and sound carried in strange ways, and she seemed to believe him. She followed him too, as if she believed he knew were he was going. Garak had no idea. It seemed to him as if he hadn’t known anything - who he was, what he was doing, where he was going, what he wanted - for the longest time; and yet he was moving, and speaking, and thinking, and people moved with him, and listened to what he said, and trusted him. 

She trusted him. He could feel her small hand in his, and it was not trembling, or heavy with fear. It was alive. He could feel Ziyal’s pulse against his own palm and had the strange and exhilarating feeling that it was this he was following when he chose to turn this corner and not the other, walk right or walk left, wait or run. As if her blood was talking to him. And her blood knew where to find her father. 

He wondered if she knew, if she would ever know: that even when he pretended to be leading, he was really following her. That even drugged, starved, hungover and sick to the bones, she was the one who knew. She knew they could not just steal (borrow) a transport and disappear. Because she had to find her father. Her father whom she loved and she hated, her father who was a monster, her father who could, and most probably would, kill her. 

If they found him (when they found him) she might not survive the next hour. All the healing, all the pain, all the hope for the future would have been in vain. They would have found each other for nothing. 

And yet, hadn’t he left her? Hadn’t he killed their future once already? All because his father called him, his own father that he hated and loved, his own father who was a monster. His father who would kill him, and only didn’t because he couldn’t, because his body didn’t obey him anymore. 

_Take this boy away. What use do I have for him?_

Famous last words of Enabran Tain. Taking yet another turn, Garak wondered vaguely what Dukat’s last words would be. Because in the midst of this new uncertainty that he was becoming used to, there was one thing he was sure of: Dukat was not going to do them the favour of dying of illness and old age. If they - Ziyal and Garak, Cardassia, the whole quadrant, and possibly even the Universe - wanted to regain at least a semblance of peace, they would have to do the job themselves. 

The corridor they had turned into was empty, except for one single chair, perfectly situated right in the middle of it. A dark wooden chair with a straight back. Nothing else. Suddenly, there was phaser fire and running footsteps, then a heavy fall. The sounds were no closer or farther away, no louder or softer than they had heard before during this last walk through the station. Just another skirmish, Garak thought, but Ziyal’s grip on his hand became harder. 

“I know where he is”, she said. 

Garak followed her.


	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is why you kill people. Why your father kills people. They stand before you, they exist; you don’t want them to exist, to be there, standing before you; thus, you make them not exist. Permanently. Because you can, because you have the skills. You decide. You are important. You are god._

55\. 

When they arrived, he was waiting. 

Although she was aware that for most people it was the complete opposite, the security office was a place Ziyal had always associated with actually feeling safe and secure, probably because she could not imagine *not* feeling safe and secure in any place Odo was. Even when Odo was not there, it had always felt like Odo’s place. Nothing could happen to her there. 

But it wasn’t Odo’s place anymore. Now it was empty and dark, and Odo was probably dripping off some wall, ripped apart by some grenade. It was no one’s place now. A few flickering lights here and there, imploded consoles, smoke curling up from them; a low buzzing noise from exposed circuits. Their feet crunched on shattered glass as they walked in. 

They saw him right away - how could they not. He was sitting cross-legged on the main desk. Someone had shot a hole in it and there was smoke coming out of it too, which gave Riker a vaguely spiritual air, as if he’d just descended from somewhere, or was about to ascend somewhere else. He looked not quite there, and yet so present. He sat there like someone completely in possession of himself. Completely at peace. 

Ziyal felt a shiver run through her, and then she felt her heart slowing in her chest, slowing, slowing, and only then she realised how fast it had been beating for who knew how long. She took a deep breath, and part of her, and no small part, rejoiced at that simple fact. For some people, taking a deep breath was just something they did, not worth of notice. For people like her and Garak, and Will Riker too, it would always be a miracle. 

“Will?” 

He opened his eyes. 

“Hello. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Yes. I - are you all right?”

“I’m fine. You?”

“Fine.” 

Strangely enough, he looked like he meant it. Even more strange, she didn’t think she was lying, either.

“Lieutenant, how are you holding up?”

She felt Garak’s grip on her hand harden for a second, his breathing stop and then resume. 

“I assume… I assume I will be required to write a report.”

Riker smiled. 

“Absolutely. Several reports, actually.”

“Well, they are going to be most interesting.”

“I foresee a brilliant career for you, Mr. Garak.” 

“I think the rank of Admiral would suit me splendidly.”

“You know what? I wouldn’t bet against that.”

Riker jumped off the desk and landed on his feet lightly. It always surprised Ziyal how such a big man could be so - lithe, almost feline in his movement. _It comes from always being ready to jump, to run, to duck, to disappear. Garak has it, I have it. And Kira had it._

“Is he there?”

She gestured towards the door that opened to the holding cells behind the office. 

“Yes.” 

Ziyal let go of Garak’s hand, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Has he ever done that?, she wondered. As she stepped through the door, she felt his touch reverberating through her body. Is it going to be like this every time? Something strange fluttered in her stomach, or around her heart, she wasn’t sure which, and the instant the doors closed behind her she realised it was hope. 

 

It was hard to make him out. The room was dark, no smoking consoles in here, just the emergency lights. He was sitting in the back of his cell, where the shadows were deepest, cross legged, mimicking the position they had found Will in, but how could he be mimicking it if he couldn’t see him? His eyes were open, and he was looking directly at her. He too seemed calm, in possession of himself, but there was a fleeting quality around him, a wavering, like he was about to shift into something completely different the next minute, the next second. Hadn’t he always been like that? 

“My darling”, Dukat said, his expression unchanged. He also sounded like he meant it. Was it her, was whatever Garak had given her still coursing through her veins making her susceptible, weak, gullible? She tried to harden herself. Darling or no darling, father or no father, that was a murderer sitting in front of her. 

_There’s a murderer standing in front of him. And there are two murderers out there, waiting for you._

“Why did you do it? Why did you have to do it?”

If he asks “did what”, I could kill him here and now, she thought. Wouldn’t that be easy. 

“I don’t know, my darling. I know that I regret it, though.”

“Oh, sure. Sure you do.”

Dukat stood up and came closer. He raised his hand and the force-field crackled briefly. For it to do that when his hand wasn’t even that close to it, Riker would have to have regulated it to the absolute maximum. If Dukat tried to touch it, it wouldn’t just burn a little, it would seriously hurt him. Depending on how long he had gone without food and water, and how bad Kira had injured him (and Kira had injured him), it might even kill him. 

“I… I was not quite myself.”

“I think you were. I think you were exactly yourself.” 

“Perhaps you are right.”

Did he really sound tired, or was he pretending to sound tired, to manipulate her, to elicit her pity? That was what he did, didn’t he? It was what they all did - Garak, Will, Bashir, Kira, and most of all, Tora Ziyal - : evaluate, measure, calculate, position people here and there, so they would act and react the way they should when the moment came. 

Ziyal knew how she was being positioned, she knew what her father wanted, she could hear it as clearly as if he was shouting it at the top of his voice. It was what they wanted too, Garak and Will, the men waiting for her on the other side of the door. It was what she wanted too. It was the logical solution, the easiest one; it was the right thing to do. 

And she knew, just as clearly, that it was the one thing she couldn’t do.

Still, he didn’t need to know. No one did. Not just yet. 

“Father… what is it that you want?”

“I want you to be safe, I want you to be happy. It’s all I’ve ever… 

“Father?”

“All right, no, it’s not all I’ve ever wanted. I’d quite like to be the ruler of Cardassia, bring it to it’s former glory and be remembered for many centuries as a leader among leaders, a ruler among rulers. I also want to be rich, lead an easy life surrounded by beauty and harmony and love. Nothing unreasonable, you see. But right now that doesn’t seem… quite as important as it once was. 

“I see.”

“That could change though.” 

“I know.”

He smiled. Ziyal smiled back. They were going to play this game, it seemed. One last time. 

“You do know the easiest way to achieve all that would be if you were dead. I would be safe and happy, and you would certainly be remembered. You’ve already had a pretty sweet life, haven’t you? And the leader among leaders thing could be… well, edited in later on. A hundred years or so makes all the difference. Who will know who any of us were, a hundred years from now?” 

“Yes, that thought has occurred to me. But that is not the question, though, is it?”

“Isn’t it? So what is the question then?” 

“It’s not about the fact of my death, but who will propitiate it.”

“You mean will I kill you, or will I have someone else do it for me.”

“In a nutshell.”

“Well, I’ve given that a great deal of thought lately, as you might have imagined.”

“Naturally.”

“Yes, naturally. And I’ve come to the conclusion that it would be best for everyone if I was to do it myself.

“Indeed.”

“Right now.”

“Yes, I’ve come to the same conclusion.” 

Still he was smiling, still she was smiling back. It *would* be the best. If she didn’t, things would get - complicated. And hadn’t things been too complicated for too long? Didn’t they all deserve a rest? Wasn’t he standing there, looking at her calmly, telling her to do it, telling her it was ok? Wouldn’t it be a perfect closure, a fresh start, a new world? 

_It would also be murder._

“All you have to do is disconnect the force-field. I promise I won’t run.”

“Promises from you aren’t worth very much, father.”

“They are when I make them to you.” 

There was much to reflect on here. Was this true? Had her father kept her promises to her? Had he even made promises to keep? And even if he had, did it mean anything? Did it make him worth saving? 

_Step back, think. You don’t have to decide anything right now._

Even as she was thinking it, she saw herself step forward, approach the terminal right beside the entrance to the cell; punch the keys, kill the forcefield. It shimmered and crackled for a second, then her father was free. For a moment, he just stood there, then he raised his hand, like he had before, as if to touch her, and let it sink again. Ziyal also raised her hand, mirroring his movement. They never touched, as if the force field was still between them. 

Ziyal moved to the side, signalling her father to step out of the cell. He did. 

_He’s waiting for you to kill him. He really is._

“Leave.” 

He didn’t move, his expression didn’t change. 

“I said ‘leave’. Get out of here. Now, before I change my mind.”

“That’s not… what you said.”

“I know.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not.”

“What I did… to Kira…”

“Just. Go.”

_This is why you kill people. Why your father kills people. They stand before you, they exist; you don’t want them to exist, to be there, standing before you; thus, you make them not exist. Permanently. Because you can, because you have the skills. You decide. You are important. You are god._

“What about them?”

Dukat lifted his chin, pointing to the exit. 

“I am not responsible for them. I am your daughter, my allegiance is to no one. I hate what you are, and what you did, and I am letting you go. They are Starfleet officers. They will do what they have to do.”

Dukat turned to the exit; she could see he was evaluating possible outcomes, routes of escape, body parts he might damage, words he might use to talk himself through different scenarios. His business with her was finished: he had loved her, just now, he had been willing to leave his life at her hands. He had been ready to die. Now that was over, and he turned his attention elsewhere. If it should ever become necessary, he would turn it again to her, and he would hate or love her then, as was convenient. 

I am not like him, Ziyal thought, and for the first time, she believed it. The thought filled her with wonder, and with a lightness she couldn’t remember ever experiencing. As if she was about to float away into the Universe right then and there, and it was perfectly all right. 

_You are free. This is what it feels like to be free._

Dukat turned to her, possibly for a last goodbye, or more probably to ask for something: a ship, an access code, a word that would get him passage. He thought she had that kind of knowledge and power, and that pleased her. But before he could say anything, a noise outside made him turn towards the exit again. There was a crash, muffled exclamations: a fight. Ziyal felt her sleeves for her little trusty knives, but of course they were long lost - in Damar’s quarters, in another life. She looked around for shattered pieces of glass, scraps of metal, anything she could use. There was nothing. When she looked up, she half expected her father to have disappeared already. Instead, she found herself staring into the face of the life she thought she had left behind.


	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another brutal man she was letting go. _Is this who I have become now? Is this what Garak and Julian wanted? Does this mean I’m cured?_

56\. 

Garak and Will came running in right after Damar. He must have surprised them; they were both tired and strung out, they did not expect him. It happens. But they were here now, to either side of him, and Damar, he was not moving. There were four men in the room now, all silent, and all looking at her. When did I become judge and jury, when did I become the arbiter of life and death?, Ziyal thought. Is it because Kira is dead? Because they are men and need a woman to tell them what to do? 

_It is you they hurt. Mostly. That is why their lives belong to you. These men, they understand that. Even if they don’t know it, they understand it._

Ziyal looked at Garak, who was standing to the left of Damar. One word from her, not even a word, one nod, one twitch with the corner of her mouth, and Damar would no longer exist. His smell, his hands creeping up her thighs, his voice, his breath on her mouth. He would be gone, forgotten, obliterated. She raised her hand. It seemed like a rather grand gesture, but she wanted Damar to see that she had the power, that she was using it. She wanted them all to see. 

“Damar.”

“Ziyal.”

“What can I do for you? We’re kind of in the middle of something here.”

“Yes, I can see that.” 

Damar looked at Dukat, then back at Ziyal. He too was measuring up the room, the people in it, possible scenarios. Only he was much more obvious about it. He was nervous, which made him even less perceptive than he usually was. He had no idea what was going on, but Ziyal suspected he’d rather die than expose himself by asking any questions. Ziyal had no such inhibitions, shame and pride were both rather alien concepts to her. 

“Damar. What do you want?”

Damar lifted his chin towards Dukat, in a gesture he was clearly trying to make as contemptuous as possible. 

“Him. I want him.”

“Well, you’re not the only one. There’s a line, you know. You better wait your turn.”

Will’s eyes were sparkling, he seemed actually amused. Ziyal saw Damar curl his hands into fists, saw little veins starting to protrude and pulsate in his temples, sweat break out on his forehead and upper lip. Will knew exactly why he had said that, of course. It was so easy to make Damar angry. Proud people are so weak. 

“And who are you again? Commander… Riker? Or is it Lieutenant? Oh, never mind, I doubt I could remember anyway. I’m sure you’ll get a case number soon enough. Numbers are so much easier to remember. Ours is a very orderly prison system, you see, everyone is catalogued, everyone gets a number. And I’m very good with numbers. Ziyal will tell you. Am I not, sweetheart?”

His words didn’t affect Will the way Will’s had affected him, but he had regained his composure, showed them he was still in the game. The question was: which game was he playing? Because Ziyal was not playing, she was long past that. And that “sweetheart” at the end - well, that *had* affected Ziyal. She didn’t show it, of course, but the thought of hurting Damar was again very, very attractive. 

“I think you better leave. Right now. I really think that’s the best you can do.”

Another brutal man she was letting go. _Is this who I have become now? Is this what Garak and Julian wanted? Does this mean I’m cured?_

Damar straightened his shoulders, lifted his head and looked directly at Dukat, putting on what Ziyal had come to call his “official face”. He liked to put on that face, even when he was in bed, even when he was drunk. *Especially* when he was drunk. But he was not drunk now. 

“You are a traitor to the Cardassian people. You have brought ruin and disgrace upon the Cardassian people, *my* people. Now is the time to pay for your crimes.” 

“Ah. And I assume you are the one chosen to exact this payment from me, am I correct?”

“Yes.” 

“Well, I must say, and I never thought I would say this, but I agree with Commander Riker. There seems to be a line, and these people were here first.” 

Damar didn’t waver. One thing Ziyal had always sincerely admired about him was his earnestness. He had no real sense of irony, absolutely no self-consciousness. He always believed himself. That made him very dangerous and cruel, but Ziyal couldn’t help also finding a kind of purity in it. Everyone was twisted, with so many layers of complexities and contradicting intentions and plans and wishes. But he, he was simple. She almost felt - jealous. 

_You can always go with him. It would be a simple life. Probably short, but simple. You could be happy._

Under different circumstances, Ziyal might have indulged in a few moments of fantasy, imagining a life with Damar. Cooking, raising scores of children. Hiding bottles of Kanar, dedicating her days to the fabrication of the idea that neither of them drank. Putting make-up over bruises and trying to remember if he had inflicted them, and if it had been pleasurable or not. She could have lived that life, and who was to say if it was better or worse than any other? But it didn’t matter anymore, because some time between that first time she had entered Garak’s shop with Julian, and puking and shitting her guts out in front of him in some nondescript cargo bay just a few hours ago, she had made her decision. Or something had made the decision for her. There would be other decisions in her future, and who knew what kind of life she was going to lead. But who she was going to live it with? That decision was made. 

“There is no line. I am not concerned with any lines you have manufactured in your mind. We are the only two Cardassians in this room. He belongs to me.” 

“The *only* two Cardassians?”

“The only *real* Cardassians, yes. In the future Cardassia, the new Cardassia we will build, there will be no half-breeds, or traitors. They are no concern of ours. They are not real Cardassians. They will all perish.”

By that logic, Dukat was not a real Cardassian either, being a traitor to his people, as Damar himself had just so eloquently explained. Either he should have been intent on killing Ziyal, Garak *and* Dukat then and there, or he should have been unconcerned, as he put it, with all three of them, expecting them to perish due to their inability to function as pitiful non-Cardassians in a Cardassian Universe. But Damar was operating on a logic of his own. 

“Come with me. We don’t have to do this in front of your daughter.”

“Oh, how delicate of you. Isn’t she going to perish anyway? Does that mean you care about the feelings of a half-breed?”

Damar seemed to be seriously considering this. Then, with a small movement, he took a phaser out of his shirt. It was a Starfleet phaser, one of the smaller models, he must have taken it from someone, probably someone he killed. Not the most powerful weapon, but perfectly efficient at point blank range. 

“No, you are right. I don’t care about her feelings at all. I thought I did. You made me believe I should. But I don’t.”

He looked relieved. 

_A phaser. He has a phaser._

Ziyal didn’t even have to look at Garak and Will to know that they didn’t have a weapon either. Three warriors without weapons in the middle of a war.

_Your bodies are your weapons. Because your bodies are made to suffer, and you’ve been taught to welcome death. Damar doesn’t know this. And that is why he is going to die._

Now it was only a question of who would move first.


	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziyal tried to remember if she had ever had such a friendly and honest conversation with Damar.

57.

_I wish I was alone._

Ziyal had spent so many years alone, wishing there was someone, anyone, out there, to care about her. Dreaming about her father, her tall, beautiful, cruel father. Dreaming about her mother, even though she had been weak, her mother who had braided her hair and sung her songs with her clear full voice. Dreaming of a home. 

And now she had it. They were all there, her home, her family. She had her father, who was still cruel, and tall and beautiful, who was quite mad too, but he was there, and he loved her, that much was certain. There was Garak, so like her father, and so different, so scared and so hopeful. She knew him like she had never thought she would know anyone, and he too loved her. There was Will, with his hard eyes and his warm heart, who had talked to her once and let her cry and told her of the Frost Giants. Who had come for her although he didn’t have to. And there was Damar, who had touched her with his greedy hands. He had tried, he had tried to understand her, at least in the beginning, at least for a little while, and that she would always remember. 

In one way or another, they all cared about her. There was a time, back on the compound, when Ziyal would have welcomed even the hate Damar was presumably feeling, because it was meant for her personally, because it belonged to her. These men, with all their complicated feelings for her and for each other, were her home now. And how she wished they weren’t. How she wished she was alone again. 

_Alone is better. Alone is simpler._

_Alone doesn’t hurt._

She stared at the phaser in Damar’s hand, pointing at her father. Without it, there would have been a possibility, however small, of everyone walking out of the room alive and unharmed, free to follow whatever path in life they chose, even if it was a bad or evil one. She could have done that, given them all the gift of freedom - a new start. But the phaser proved her failure, and her blindness. And now, someone was going to die. 

“You can still walk away, Damar. Think about it. We can all walk away.”

She didn’t believe it, but she said the words anyway. Wether you believed them or not, words could have surprising power, that much she had learned. 

“Step away, Ziyal. I’ll only say it once.”

She hadn’t even realized that she had stepped in front of her father. Damar raised his phaser. 

“I will shoot you both. I will shoot all of you, I will kill you all, I will…”

Garak moved towards Damar’s phaser, and Damar instantly turned and shot him. Damar had been expecting that, he had made them all believe he was distracted, launching into another of his speeches about the glory of Cardassia and the glory of himself when all along, it was Garak he had wanted to take out first. As he should. And he had succeeded. Garak crumbled to the floor without a sound. 

_Smart boy._

Ziyal turned towards Garak, as she knew she shouldn’t. Tora wouldn’t have let her, Tora would have pushed Ziyal to the side, taken over. Ended it. Tora would have ended it a long time ago. But Tora wasn’t there anymore, wasn’t she? Garak and Julian and those long hours in that cargo bay had made her go away, and no one knew where she was, not even Ziyal. Who would have thought that she would be missing her already? 

Garak’s eyes were closed, he was not moving, but there was no blood anywhere. Of course there wasn’t, you didn’t bleed when a phaser killed you. Garak would just never open his eyes again, and that would be it. So simple. Always so simple. 

Will was standing so close to Damar that he just had to reach out his arms to immobilize him. Which he did. Damar was not small for a Cardassian, but no match for Will’s girth and stature, and Will’s arms locked around him like an iron grip. Damar instantly started to wriggle, like a little child, and in the millisecond it took Will to adjust his grip, lifted his leg and kicked it against Will’s groin. He didn’t get a lot of leverage, and the leg-lift was very awkward and not very potent at all, but it was enough for Will to let Damar go and stagger a few steps back, a bewildered look on his face. As wise and experienced as he was, he had spent too much time in Starfleet now. Kicks in the groin were not part of his daily experience anymore.

Damar had one free shot now. Only one, before either Ziyal or Will got to him. Ziyal saw him turn his phaser towards her and was not surprised. There was intimacy between them, they had tasted each other’s skins. Of course he would want to kill her first. She would have done the same. 

She looked down at Garak, who still wasn’t moving, and then back at Damar, who was fumbling with the phaser. 

A shadow passed before her eyes. For a second, Ziyal thought she was going to faint, or maybe enter into that world of fog that she used to live in, before. Where Tora lived. But the shadow was real: it was her father, rushing in front of her just as Damar pressed the trigger. He fell right on top of Garak. 

This time, Ziyal didn’t turn towards her father, kneel beside him, put her hand on his chest. She kept her eyes focused on Damar. She breathed. 

Will was advancing towards Damar again, his face expressionless. Ziyal raised her hand. Will took a few steps more, then stopped. Her eyes had never left Damar, but a part of her could feel how hard it was for Will to do that. She understood, oh how she understood. It was a dance, it was always a dance, and it was Will’s solo now. Except she couldn’t let him have it. 

“He had to be stopped.”

“I know.”

Ziyal tried to remember if she had ever had such a friendly and honest conversation with Damar. Had they ever had a conversation of any kind? She remembered their first date (also their last one, there hadn’t been any more dates after that). He had told her about the glory of Cardassia, about the man he wanted to be. She had found him earnest and dumb and felt a vague tenderness about him. The she had gotten drunk for the first time in her life and had sex with him right away because it was what her father wanted and Garak was dead and nothing mattered. 

He was just a boy, after all. Just a boy. 

And he still had hope. She could see it in his eyes. He thought she had stopped Will because she wanted to talk to him. He thought there would be some final words of tenderness, of surrender, or of anger, and then she would let him kill her. He thought he understood. 

Ziyal smiled at him, and he smiled back, relieved, proud. In one flowing movement, Ziyal too one step towards him, just one. One hand closed around the phaser, the other rammed against his throat. In another step, still floating, still dancing, Ziyal was behind him, her arms around his neck, tenderly. She bent her body, used his weight, as she had done with many men before him. She held him there for one more moment before she let him glide to the ground, the smile still on his face. It would be there forever. The smile of a man who had fulfilled his mission. A true Cardassian patriot.


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It got me. The thing in the cupboard. The thing in the darkness. It finally got me._
> 
> _It’s real._

58.

_Come on, Lieutenant. Get to it and get a grip. You’re up._

Dax. What was Dax doing here. And where was here. 

Cold. The floor was cold. He was lying on the floor. Why, where, how. He needed more information, but there was nothing except pain and darkness. 

_That’s because your eyes are closed, Mr. Garak. Maybe you should open them._

He considered that for a moment. Opening his eyes would probably bring more pain. The way his head felt right now, it was not impossible that he might pass out from it. Did he really need that information so badly? Couldn’t he just keep lying here, wherever that was? Information would sooner or later catch up with him. It always did. Yes, he would just lie here in the floor for a little while, with his eyes closed. The floor was good. The floor was safe.

Except it was heavy. Really heavy. Why would the floor be heavy? Why would the floor be on top of him? Maybe he needed that information after all, maybe the floor wasn’t safe, because now it was getting hard to breathe, and breathing was always a priority. 

_It got me. The thing in the cupboard. The thing in the darkness. It finally got me._

_It’s real._

Garak tried to move, to get away from it, but his arms were so heavy, and his legs, he just could not move. It was going to kill him, it was finally going to kill him. And only now, when it was too late, he realised he did not want to go. All his life he had courted the darkness, and every time he had turned away from it, it had been with the promise of a return, of a final union. He had always believed he belonged to it: where else would he go? Now the answer was clear, he didn’t need to open his eyes to see it before him: Ziyal. And behind her, other faces: Julian. Dax. Riker. Just now, when he couldn’t turn away anymore, when the darkness was claiming him, he could see what he never could before: the future. 

 

“Garak? Garak, can you hear me?”

The weight was lifted from his chest. Garak took a deep breath and instinctively opened his eyes. 

“He’s alive, Ziyal! You hear me? He’s alive! Damar must have set the phaser wrong that first time… Here, Garak, can you move?”

Riker was lifting him, trying to bring him to a seated position. Garak’s limbs felt like pieces of wood - wood filled with lead. Huffing and puffing, Riker managed to position Garak against a bulkhead in a more or less upright position. He had the feeling that he was most likely drooling, but he couldn’t feel his face or his mouth. Speaking was impossible, as was any kind of movement. 

But he could see. He could see two bodies lying on the floor, one facing up, one facing down. Damar was smiling, his eyes were open, he looked content, satisfied. Accomplished. Dukat was lying beside him in an awkward position, like a really bad actor pretending to be asleep. They were not moving, but neither was Garak, so who knew? 

He could see Riker moving beside him out of the corner of his eye. And he could see another figure, very small, huddled in the farthest corner of the room, her head pressed against her knees, her hands covering her head. He wanted to go there so badly that it seemed impossible that his body would be able to resist his will - but it did. A sound escaped his throat, a kind of groan, and he heard Riker’s voice again: 

“It’s all right, it will come back soon enough. Just sit here for a while, ok?”

Garak’s eyes moved to Ziyal, Damar, Dukat, back to Ziyal. 

“They’re dead.”

Ziyal. Ziyal. Ziyal. 

“She’s… she’ll be all right. She… she just needs time.”

Go to her, you fool. Don’t leave her like that. Don’t you see what she’s doing? She’s disappearing again. I can see her disappearing. Don’t let her. 

Riker, who had been crouching beside Garak, stood up. Garak still couldn’t move his head, but Riker’s hands were right before his eyes, and he could see they were shaking. He took a couple of steps towards the corner, hesitated, stopped. Took another step. Garak could hear him breathe. There was no sound from Ziyal. 

Go there. Go there NOW.

As if she had heard the scream in his head, Ziyal’s head snapped up. She was looking at him, but there was something wrong with her eyes. She didn’t see. She was gone. He had lost her. 

“Ziyal? Ziyal. Can you look at me? Just for a second. Please?”

Riker was moving towards her, his hesitation gone. He sat beside her. Even sitting he looked enormous. For a moment no one moved. Like a boulder and a pebble they sat. Two stones. Then Riker leaned over to Ziyal and began speaking to her in a low voice, almost a whisper. Garak couldn’t hear anything and knew he wasn’t supposed to. It wasn’t as if he could have participated in the conversation, was it? It wasn’t as if he was of any use, at all… 

Riker was talking and talking. It seemed he had been talking for hours. How could he find so many words? And would words get through to wherever Ziyal had retreated to? Her eyes were still wide and distant, staring into a terrible abyss no one else could see. Garak knew exactly where that abyss was, of course, and he would gladly have given his life to spare Ziyal the sight of it. 

Riker was reaching for her hand now, and Garak was afraid she would recoil from the touch, run away and never be seen again. But she did let Riker touch her, her face unchanged. When he got up, she left her hand in his, got up as well, walked with him, not seeing, not blinking, like an automaton. When they reached Garak, Riker crouched down again, gently guiding Ziyal to do the same. It was unbearable to look into her blank eyes. Very slowly, Riker lifted Ziyal’s hand and placed it on Garak’s face - or so he supposed. He felt nothing. Nothing moved in Ziyal’s face. He thought oh Ziyal, my beautiful Ziyal, nothing could be worse than this…

Then, several things happened at once. He heard someone say “Ziiii…ssssssh…” and realised it was his own voice. Ziyal’s fingers moved over his face of their own accord and, most remarkably, he could feel it. Her eyes were still distant, but was there a spark in them, a connection? Straining every muscle, Garak managed to say her name. And again. And again. And each time, he could feel something in her coming closer and closer until, feeling that his tongue would surely break, he had to stop, and Ziyal was staring at him with wonder and sadness. The first thing she said was “you’re not dead”. 

For a while, they just sat there, the three of them. Riker to one side of Garak, softly smiling to himself as if remembering distant, happy times; Ziyal to the other, holding Garak’s hand; and Garak feeling his muscles relax and come to life, feeling, finally, the tears that had been streaming down his face all this time, feeling Ziyal’s hand in his and thinking: “Same to you, Ziyal; same to you, Commander Riker. Same to you.” 

It felt like hours or even days: the three of them in their own little world, where everything was good, and safe, and peaceful. As long as they were there, close to each other, as long as they didn’t speak too much or move to much or even breathe too much, everything would be all right, for as long as they wanted. 

Or, as it turned out, for as long as they let them. The battle for Deep Space 9 had not stopped while they were fighting their own, and now they could hear it coming closer - which made sense, seeing as how Odo’s security station was more or less the centre of DS9. Soon, there were voices *in* the station, just outside the brig. They could hear someone saying the area needed to be secured. But who was going to secure the area from what? 

Riker got back up on his feet, the smile gone from his face. Garak wished he could do the same, meet whatever was coming through standing on his feet, but he still couldn’t move much more than his neck. So it was Ziyal who stood up, taking his hand with her and leaving him in a ridiculous, albeit comforting position. 

There were steps. Just one person. Then silence. More silence. And then a voice, a voice that always seemed to fill the room, a voice that expanded, even when it was low. A voice that made Garak shed fresh tears of relief. 

“Well, this looks like a very interesting report right here.”

“Yes, sir. I was just saying that to Lieutenant Garak.”

“*Lieutenant* Garak?”

Sisko stepped around to position himself in front of Garak, and while Garak tried to look up at him, he could feel a sliver of drool running down his cheek. 

This was going well.


	59. Chapter 59

Epilogue: I

 

“She’s not going to like it.”

“Are you sure about that?”

 

It’s going to be an interesting report, Riker had said, Sisko had said. Garak didn’t know if they were all that interesting, but he did know he had written *a lot* of reports. There were many branches in Starfleet, it turned out, and they all wanted a report especially tailored to suit their own focus. Now, tailoring words was, of course, Elim Garak’s specialty; up until now he had excelled at obfuscating, but soon he found out that, when so inclined, he was also very good at telling the truth. Very good indeed. The reports came back with enthusiastic notes and pages of remarks asking for even more specific details. Garak spent hours writing, recollecting, narrating scenes he had been witness of almost second by second, and oh how much a second could contain. Now that those scenes were in the past, he felt a sense of pleasure in reliving them like that, bringing order to chaos, attaching some sense, some purpose, where there hadn’t been any.

After the reports came the strategy sessions. Now that they knew what he had seen they wanted to know: what did he make of it? What did he think could happen, should happen, would happen? Oh, it’s all speculation, of course. To be sure, Starfleet had many other consultants, he was only one of them. And yet, could he stay another hour, another two hours, just to go over this new scenario or these new projection figures? And could he possibly come back tomorrow, if it wasn’t too much trouble? 08:00? Splendid.

Everyone was being very polite, always saying please and thank you and we really appreciate your help, Mr. Garak. Almost if they were forgetting he was still a Starfleet officer and that they could order him to do most of these things. Every day he was expecting someone - he was hoping it would be Dax - to tell him it was time to turn in his uniform and his pips, to shake his hand and thank him for his service, maybe give him a certificate or something, to put on his wall. Every night, after the meetings and the reports and spending as much time as he could with Julian and Ziyal, he undressed and carefully folded up his uniform, thinking that surely, today had been the last day he was going to wear it. And every night he felt deep regret at the thought, a regret he didn’t quite know what to do with. 

Until one day he was indeed called into a “performance review” meeting, and Dax was there, and Sisko, and Bashir, and they were all smiling, and Garak thought they were probably relieved. After all, he was a problem, a liability: a Cardassian operative, loyal to no one but himself, wearing a Starfleet uniform in a time of war. Even though it had turned out well (as far as they knew), it was an big risk that couldn’t be sustained any longer. Dax had probably gotten her fingers slapped over her decision, and he had the intention of apologising to her before he left: hadn’t he arm-wrestled her into this? 

It took him several minutes to realise that they were not showing him the door. They wanted to take him in. For good. There was talk of additional training, academy courses, credit compensation. School. He was going to have to go to school, with cadets he could very well have fathered. He was going to have to follow rules. And there were a lot of rules. He was going to have to care about something he might never fully understand. He was going to be watched. But if he wanted it, he could have it. 

A permanent commission. He could be an officer in Starfleet. 

He could take all the time he needed, they said. Well, not ALL the time, but some time. It was an important decision, a weighty one. It was not an offer made lightly, and it should not be accepted or rejected lightly. Garak nodded and listened to them some more and then, before he even knew what was coming out of his mouth he said: 

“I don’t need to think about it. I’ve made my decision. I think… I made it some time ago.” 

 

And now there was the question of telling her.

“She’s not going to like it.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Garak stared at Julian. It used to be so easy to read him. More stimulating perhaps than others, but still easy. And now he found himself sitting across this placidly smiling man with no idea of what he could possibly be thinking. Maybe this is what being around Starfleet people does to you, he though. It dulls you. 

_What have I done?_

“Well yes, Julian, given the circumstances I am fairly sure about it.”

“I suppose you won’t know until you tell her”, Julian said. And then he chuckled. He *chuckled*, as if the mere idea of this conversation between Garak and Ziyal gave him a special kind of pleasure. Garak thought he should get up and hit him now, but he didn’t really feel like it. 

“I fail to see the humour in this situation, Julian. I really do.” 

Julian didn’t reply to that, just looked at him again with that friendly, placid smile that was so irritating. A smile that plainly said _I know something that you don’t. But never mind, you’ll find out in time. Maybe._ This was not how it was supposed to be. Other people were not supposed to look at him like that. Other people should not know more than Elim Garak, ever. 

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Whatever are you referring to, Lieutenant?” 

“Forget about it. I made the mistake of coming to you for advice, I’m sorry to have bothered you.” 

Already turning away, Garak felt Julian’s hand on his.

“Garak. I’m sorry.”

He sat back down. He was still confused and irritated, but his survival instinct was strong enough to tell him it was a bad idea to turn his back in anger on what might very well be his only real friend. 

“Ok, you’re right, I was gloating a little bit. I though it might lighten the mood a bit… I didn’t mean to hurt you, Garak, I really didn’t.”

“I’ve been… a bit gloomy these days, haven’t I?”

Garak reached for the mug on the table in front of him and made a face at the stale, cold Raktajino, but swallowed it anyway. 

“We’ve all been gloomy, and it’s not like we don’t have reasons. It’s just that… well, it *is* funny, even you have to admit that.”

“What is?”

Julian’s smile turned into a grin, then broke into a fit of helpless laughter. 

“That you’re a Starfleet officer, Garak. That you’ve chosen to continue to be a Starfleet officer. That you’re so bloody confused about it. And that your biggest fear right now is how angry your girlfriend is going to be.” 

_You’ve become ordinary, Elim, my boy. You’re one of those people now, with a girlfriend and a job. People invite you to dinner parties. You say yes sir and no sir. People like you, Elim, we used to snuff them out without a second thought. People like you don’t count for anything in the world to come._

He would be hearing his father’s voice for the rest of his life. Garak had always been sure of it, and Julian had confirmed it. So had Will Riker, in a strangely intimate, yet awkward (or was it the other way around?) conversation they’d had before Riker had left to rejoin the Enterprise. That voice, it would always tell him the things he didn’t want to hear, dark truths, twisted lies. He should listen to it, they had told him, because there was much to be learned from that voice. He should embrace it, they said, because that voice was his own. 

Garak felt he was still far away from *embracing* it; it was more likely that he would never get there. But at least he didn’t believe it anymore. 

_Oh but you will, my boy. You will…_

It was one of those moments where Garak felt it would be most appropriate to smile, yet he knew a smile would be simply impossible. Garak opted to just try and relax his face as much as he could. It seemed to work. His shoulders relaxed as well, and Julian put his hand on his again, and it felt good there. There was no reluctance in Julian’s touch, no suspicion in his smile, nothing held back in the openness of his face. People were not afraid of him now - yet another surprising facet of his new life to get used to. 

“Did she say something to you?”

“Oh, a lot of things. Many, many things that you know I can’t talk about. I’m her doctor.”

“Julian, please. You know what I mean.”

“Sorry. Yes, I know what you mean. And no, she hasn’t said anything to me, not anymore than she has probably said to you. You talk about this, don’t you? The future, what you want to do… plans, possibilities?”

“I… well, yes, we…”

Did they talk? What else did he do but talk to Ziyal? He did it when he was awake, he did it when he was a asleep, he did it eating and drinking, he did it when he was in the first meeting of the day and the eighth meeting of the day. He did it when she was there, and he did it when she was not. His life was a continuous conversation with Ziyal now, and he couldn’t imagine a time when it wouldn’t be so. Plans, possibilities? They talked about music, about colours, about food. They could spend hours exchanging all the terrible jokes they had ever heard. They talked about books. Sometimes, they told each other stories and let the other one guess if it was a story they had read, or made up, or actually lived. They talked about specks of dust and about planets and everything in between. 

“You haven’t, have you?”

“It didn’t seem… relevant.” 

“Of course it didn’t.” 

“Nothing is more important than her, Julian. Nothing.” 

“Garak. You can care deeply about Ziyal, and just as deeply about your commitment to Starfleet. It’s perfectly all right.”

“If she doesn’t want me to do it, I won’t do it.”

“Is that what you think? That Ziyal is going to make you choose? Those are your only options? Do what Ziyal wants, and make her happy, or do what you want, and by happy yourself?”

“No. There is only one option. Ziyal. She’s my only option. Whatever makes her happy will make me happy too. It’s as simple as that.”

Julian was going to speak, but Garak stood up, talked over him. 

“I don’t know what I was thinking. Uniforms, pips. Rules and regulations, endless reports. I’d die of boredom on two days.”

He looked at Julian now, waiting for his reply, but he didn’t speak, he just looked back at him. Garak nodded, once, twice, three times.

“I’ll tell them I changed my mind. I will tell them right now.”

“Garak. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid, I’m relieved. I am about to correct a mistake of cataclysmic proportions before it’s too late.” 

“Talk to her, Garak. Just talk to her.”

“She will laugh in my face.”

Julian stood up now, and his face was no longer pleasant, but hard and closed. He was angry. 

“Do not underestimate her.”

He turned his head away for a second, and when he looked back at Garak, his expression was smooth again. He was smiling, but there was a tension underneath. 

“Don’t make her decisions for her. And don’t make yours depend upon her. That’s not what love is, and you know it.”

Garak felt like he might very well start crying soon. It was good to be in touch with one’s own emotions and all that, but he really, really would not like it if that happened. 

“Don’t choose the obvious.”

“Is that your medical advice, doctor?”

“No, that’s my advice as a friend. Look, of course it’s appalling that you would choose to be a Starfleet officer. It’s appalling that this would even be offered to you, but this is the world we live in now, a world where Starfleet needs you and you need Starfleet. Do I think Starfleet is the ultimate solution for every problem? Of course not, it has plenty of problems itself, god knows we have seen this. Do I believe it’s the best we have right now? Yes, I do believe that. And you believe that too, you *know” it, and that’s why you want to be a part of it, because for once in your life you want to be a part of something essentially good. It’s as simple as that. And don’t tell me Ziyal will not understand that, don’t tell me Ziyal will laugh at you, because if you really believe that then you really truly don’t deserve her.”

It was a long speech, and Garak could see by the confusion in Julian’s eyes that he had not intended to give it. The silence after it was somehow resonant with the necessity to say more, the inability to do it now, the certainty that whatever needed to be said, would be said. It was a silence waiting to be filled with years of laughter, conversations, sighs, tears, songs. And suddenly, in spite of the fear and confusion and anger he still felt, Garak could not wait to begin.


	60. Chapter 60

Epilogue: II

 

“He’s not going to like it.”

“Are you sure about that?”

 

Looking out into space from her cramped cabin in the transport she had boarded not two hours ago, Ziyal thought about the camp again. When it had started, at the Starfleet base where Garak and her were being debriefed, she had been horrified. Dreams about the camp, of her standing naked under the starry sky, in the desert. First at night, and then during the days too, like flashes. All those thoughts, where did they come from? And why? Hadn’t she gone through to so much on order to be able to forget? 

But that was not even the worst. Worst of all were the feelings that came with those thoughts, those flashes. Because when they came, she didn’t feel fear, or disgust, or anxiety. No, those thoughts of the camp came with a sense of… longing. A warm feeling, a sense of calm. The memory of camp felt like home. 

The first she had done was to look for a knife, which was all too easy to come by. After all, she was a guest there, not a prisoner. Everyone was polite to her and smiled a lot, and every wish she had - maybe a certain book, or a new dress, could I use the gym, please? - was granted so fast it was a bit uncanny. It was almost as if they were - afraid of her? The knife she didn’t ask for, though. She just took it. Back in her room - more than a room really, a suite, very bright, with white drapes, and real flowers, and a computer voice that was so cheery it made Ziyal want to laugh and throw up at the same time -, she took it out, almost shaking in anticipation. She needed the pain, she needed to see the blood welling up. Drain herself from the darkness, from whatever evil spirit made her think about the camp, that place of hunger, of violence, of unspeakable things being done to her body, with fondness. See it spill over the immaculate carpet, finally showing what she really was inside. 

She had sat there for a long while, holding the sharp knife first to her arm, then her leg, then her neck. Then the whole round again. And again. Then she had stoop up and run to Julian. She had cried like she hadn’t cried in a long, long time, maybe she had never cried like that. 

“It’s fine. You’re fine. It will be fine”, he had told her. And she had believed him. 

They had talked a lot more, of course. How it was perfectly normal to miss the camp: after all, it was where she had grown up, where she had found herself, what she could do; her power, her strength, her independence. Since her father had taken her out of there, she had been lost, sick, and relying on men and women who, with better or worse intentions, were telling her what to do. What to like, what to feel. How to be. 

What she wanted, they concluded, Ziyal and Julian, was quite simple: now that she no longer felt sick, or lost, she wanted to be left alone. Like she had been in the camp. 

She fought him, at first. What did he mean, she wanted to be alone? Of course she didn’t! The mere thought of going somewhere without Garak made her chest hurt. He was the first thing she thought about when she woke up, the last thing before she went to sleep. They spent all of their spare time together - admittedly, with their debriefings and reports and therapy and whatnot, there wasn’t much left, but that made it even more precious. That, and the promise of a future where, if they chose so, they wouldn’t have to spend a minute apart. Ever. 

It wasn’t a very defined future, it had no place, no time, no name (although Ziyal was pretty sure one of its more probable names was “Starfleet”) - it just was. A knowledge only the both of them shared, like a special kind of gravity, binding them together, a gravity only they could feel. Inescapable. Undefinable. Frightening and delicious. 

Unnamed. 

They never spoke about it. Where they would live, where they would go. Would they travel, or stay in one spot? And what spot might that be? How would they earn their living? What new things would they learn? Where lay there allegiance in these troubled times? Would they continue they fight they had been involved with, mostly against their will, or would they choose to turn away, seek out other opportunities, other dangers, somewhere far, where no one knew them? Could they leave behind the friendships, the loyalties they had forged? Should they? 

Instead, they listened to music. Talked about books. About the war. Their childhoods. Their new friend and old friends, friends they had lost, friends they had killed, old enemies and new enemies. They talked about food, and clothes, and dances, everything and anything, nothing at all. Especially about nothing at all. 

Alone in her cabin now, hurtling through space towards a place she only knew through legends and lies, Ziyal realised that even then, when the thought of separating from Garak, leaving him behind, was laughable to her, too outrageous to consider, she had been storing information, sensations, moments. So she would have something to remember. 

And so was he. 

The day he told her, she already knew. She knew just by looking at his face, a face she had memorised by now, a face she would always take with her, wherever she went. What he said didn’t surprise her. She knew what was coming. And she had an answer. 

 

_“He’s not going to like it.”_

_“Are you sure about that?”_

Yes, she had been pretty sure. She knew he had found a new connection in Starfleet, a new purpose, and she knew he expected her to follow him - and why wouldn’t she? All her friends were in Starfleet too. Wasn’t there a connection for her too? Wasn’t it her only connection? 

“Yes, it’s possible that Garak has his own expectations. But that doesn’t mean he won’t be willing to consider a - change of plans.”

“Haven’t we had enough of those already, Julian?”

“Only you can answer that question, Ziyal. You don’t have to decide anything right now. The important thing, the thing I believe you already, finally, understand, is that you are free to choose.”

No one said anything after that for a long while. Ziyal was thankful to Julian for acknowledging just how frightening that idea was to her. When he could see she was a bit more settled, she continued speaking softly. 

“Being free doesn’t mean you have to be alone, Ziyal. Not all the time. Not if you don’t choose to. But it ultimately means that no one will tell you what to do, or where to go. So if Garak wants to stay in Starfleet, and you want to go explore your roots and your culture on Cardassia, but you also want to stay with Garak, then only you can decide which of those things you desire takes precedent.”

“But what if…” 

She didn’t ask the questions out loud. There was no need. Julian knew them as well as she did. They had talked about them often enough. 

Would he last in Starfleet? Yes he liked the camaraderie, the idea of some structure in his life, of serving something bigger and more meaningful than himself. And he was really good at writing reports. But what about the daily grind? Following orders he didn’t like? Superior officers he didn’t respect? The lack of mystery, of intrigue? And what about her life on Cardassia? Would she last even one day there? She didn’t really know anyone, she didn’t even look Cardassian. She was the daughter of a tyrant. What if no one wanted her there? What if those she was looking for didn’t want her help - the children, the young people, the ones who were like her? What if there was no one like her? What if she ended up all alone?

What if she lost him? What if they lost each other? 

“No one knows. You make choices, and they might turn out great, or they might turn out awful and destroy your whole life. That’s the truth. ”

“Why are you smiling? I don’t think it’s funny. I don’t think it’s funny at all.” 

“No, it’s not funny. But I know now that you’re strong enough to hear that, and strong enough to make those choices, and that - just makes me feel good.”

_Yes you are. You are strong enough._

Ziyal wasn’t used to her inner voice speaking kindly to her, encouraging her. But there were so many things she was getting used to, why not to this too? 

So she told him, and at first she could see the fear in his eyes, the same fear she had felt. But what if…? Had told her that he would come with her to Cardassia, that he didn’t want to lose her. He said that this Starfleet offer was not that important, that he would be very happy on Cardassia, that he would be very happy anywhere, as long as he was with her. And she loved him for the sincere look on his face. That such a man, who had done such things, seen such things, a man who had wielded such power, would look at her - her, Tora Ziyal - like that, and offer up his dreams, without asking for anything in return. It made her giddy, and for a minute, just a minute, she thought about accepting his offer. He loved her, he had said so. He would not leave her, he would not hurt her. She would have him there, by her side, and what could go wrong if they were together?

“I want that, Garak. I want that very much.” 

“But you are going to say no anyway.”

“Yes.”

After that, they listened to Stabat Mater one more time, while Garak arranged a transport for her. She protested that if she was going off on her own, she might as well start to manage these things on her own. 

“Please, Ziyal. Let me do this while things are… as they are now. They won’t be again.”

Ziyal didn’t fully understand what he meant, but the look on his face kept her from insisting. There was pain there, but a kind of pain she had never seen before, as if he was saying goodbye to someone, or something, he had never known. Some imagined beauty he had loved and lost. 

And now she was alone, on board the much too luxurious cabin on the much too luxurious transport he had chosen for her voyage, and all she wanted was to turn back. Tell the captain to turn around, get to the Starbase, run to Garak’s quarters and tell him she had been wrong. She must have been mad to want to go to Cardassia all alone, she knew no one there, what what she do, where would she go? And he would hold her in his arms and tell her not to worry, that she could stay with him, that they would never be apart again. 

_There’s desert on Cardassia. Lots of desert. That’s why you’re drawn there. You have to see it._

Yes, she had to see it. The desert. The desert that was in her blood. And she had to see it alone. Be in it. And once she had seen it, and it had spoken to her, and she had spoken to the people who lived in it, once she had seen many faces, all the faces she had dreamed of for so long, she would find his face again. 

She could not wait to begin. 

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what to say. It's been quite a journey. It's not what I wanted it to be, it never is, but it is what it is. Maybe someone will enjoy reading it, and that will be enought.
> 
> Thanks to miloowen, who carried me through this with endless support and cheerleading. And thanks to Ziyal and Garak, for being awesome.


End file.
